


Ruby Red

by iqom



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Dom/sub, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Reader, Femdom, Grandiose displays of wealth, Hollywood celebrity nonsense, I'm gonna put smut tags before each chapter, Light BDSM, Mean Girls References, Mettaton (Undertale) Being an Asshole, Porn With Plot, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Sub!Mettaton, dom!reader, he's been poisoned by hollywood, no Mettaton really is an asshole in this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-06-29 12:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15729543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iqom/pseuds/iqom
Summary: You've taken a job as a bartender at a MTT-Brand hotel. Mettaton stops by the bar one evening with a suggestive drink request and leaves behind his phone number. You meet again in private, and learn the intimate details of his personality. He's captivating, charismatic...Dominant, mostly. Just not in bed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all mind if I wild out? ᕕ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ᕗ  
> 

You wouldn’t consider yourself to be the _best_ bartender in Los Angeles, but you can certainly throw a decent martini together, which was enough for an upscale hotel bar to hire you for the night shift.

Your job pays well, the uniform is fine, and your supervisor is decent; so you truly have no complaints about work. Even still, you can’t help but feel a bit out of place. It’s the kind of establishment that sells cocktails for ten dollars each, with happy hour food featuring dishes like tuna crudo and arancini. It’s all a little rich for your blood. On your own time, you prefer three-dollar baskets of onion rings and a pale ale at the dive around the corner from your apartment complex.

A week before, you and the waitstaff were informed by your boss that the owner of the hotel was expected to be spending a few nights there. Although he wasn’t named specifically, everyone present knew who he was: an enigma of a celebrity, a robotic electro-pop legend with a name-brand empire.

Everyone knows who he is.

You happen to be a fan of his music— it’s not like you chose to work here, at a hotel owned by him, completely at random. A small part of you has been waiting for this moment over the last several months of your employment. A chance to meet him, hell, just a chance to _glance_ at him from across the crowded restaurant would be enough…

You are caught completely off guard when he saunters into your empty bar at eleven o’clock in the evening.

You are wiping down the counter with a damp towel— something you always do an hour before closing— so you don’t notice his arrival until you hear the clicking of heels across the shiny floor. You lift your head and lock eyes with him, the towel toppling from your fingers as your jaw shamelessly drops. You find yourself transfixed, caught like a deer in headlights.

The mood lighting is dim, accentuating the soft shadows dusting his features. His hips sway ever so slightly as he approaches, drawing attention to how perfectly his sleek black suit is tailored to his every curve.

You see him take note of your dumbstruck expression but you still can’t manage to close your damn jaw. He gives you a small, knowing smile, hops up onto a barstool with a quiet sigh and plops a ruby red Hermès bag on the smooth marble countertop.

“A Manhattan, please. Rocks, with some grenadine. I like it sweet.” He winks and you feel your heart leap into your throat. He’s drop-dead gorgeous, and your “type” on the nose— tall and broad-shouldered and yet supremely feminine. A perfect, elegant display of androgyny. You admittedly have quite a few pictures of him saved to your phone to admire in your spare time...

Being not two feet from him now, feeling his dark eyes on you as you scramble for a shaker— _Christ,_ he commands such attention, exudes so much charisma. You’re drawn to his presence like a moth to a light.

“Take your time, darling,” he says patiently as your shaking hand sends ice cubes careening every which way off of the silver scoop. You flush in embarrassment, internally kicking yourself.

“Sorry,” you stammer, “I’m just… I’m a fan.”

“Mm, I don’t blame you.” He withdraws a delicate black compact mirror from his bag and inspects his forelock, using his fingertips to push tiny loose strands of hair back to perfection. “But thank you for your support. Couldn’t do it without you.”

You finish making his drink without much mishap and push it towards him across the counter.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before,” he remarks casually before lifting the glass and taking a prim sip from his straw.

“I’ve been here a few months— five, six months? Five months…” _Breathe, Y/N! Fucking breathe. You’re gonna make a fool of yourself._

“Ah, that explains it. I don’t get a chance to drop by very often…” He sets down his glass, a small smile tugging on the corners of his black-painted lips. “There’s no forgetting a face like yours, gorgeous.”

Your heart stops for what feels like a full eight beats. You’ve momentarily lost your ability to speak altogether. Mettaton seems to have expected this, as he just chuckles softly at your stupefied expression and continues.

“What’s your name?”

You swallow hard. “Y/N.”

“A pleasure. I’m Mettaton.”

“I know.”

He stirs his drink, watching the liquid swirl around the straw. An awkward silence stretches between the two of you, the only sound emerging from the ice cubes clinking in his glass. Your mind races at a mile a minute, searching desperately for something to say.

“Well, Y/N…” he murmurs finally, rolling your name across his tongue. “You make a delicious Manhattan.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Not your first bartending job, hmm?”

You gather your wits about you, forcibly pushing away your nervousness. “I’ve worked at a couple of different places. Also went to bartending school.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “I didn’t know such a thing existed.”

“It was kind of useless, honestly. You learn more just doing it.”

He laughs before taking a long sip from his drink. You focus on getting your station organized, hands still quaking ever so slightly with excitement as you return the bottles you used to their proper places.

“So…” you begin— you’re trying to make conversation, as good bartenders do, and it’s painfully awkward. “What brings you to your hotel?”

“Oh, it’s all such a bore.” He rolls his eyes. “Conferences, mostly. I only stay the night because the meetings are all in the mornings, and I’d prefer to not commute back and forth from my house.” He sighs heavily, poking at the ice cubes in his drink with the straw. “And then there are socials in the evenings, people schmoozing left and right— Ah, you don’t care about that nonsense any more than I do. I have you trapped at forty minutes to close... you poor thing.”

‘Trapped’ was hardly the right word. In fact, you probably could have listened to him go on about any subject all night.

“It’s fine, really, it’s fine,” you assure him. By the look in his eye, you can tell he knew it was fine all along. “I end up staying late, like, every night.”

“Hm, really?”

“I don’t mind!” you add hurriedly. “I like to be alone at the end of the night, even if it means I have more work to do.”

“Ahhh. You prefer to run the place by yourself.”

“I guess, yeah.”

His head tilts to one side, an unreadable expression on his face.

“You like to be in control.”

There’s something in the way he says it; you know it has hidden meaning, and yet you can’t for the life of you decipher it. The inflection was much too purposeful— and it was such an… odd way of phrasing the statement...

“Ah...yeah?”

He hums mysteriously before taking one last sip at his drink, draining it almost completely to the bottom.

“Another?” you ask, instinctively reaching for the shaker.

He holds up a hand. “I’m spent on Manhattans. Could I see a drink menu?”

You fetch him the small black book from under the counter before taking your shaker to the sink, rinsing it of the leftover alcohol. It’s sticky, especially with the grenadine, and the remnants of Mettaton’s drink coat the metallic inside so stubbornly that you have to use a dishcloth to get it fully clean.

“Not a very wide range of options,” Mettaton remarks as you turn back to him.

“I can do anything you want,” you say, gesturing to the bottles, backlit by a small row of LED’s, on the shelves.

“I don’t doubt it,” he says with a coy smile. “Now, let’s see what you have here…”

He leans over the counter, squinting at the selection on the wall. “We know you have grenadine,” he mutters, “Now… triple sec, yes… do you have coconut rum?”

 _Coconut rum? Like Malibu?_ The drink he’s constructing in his mind is so very different from a simple Manhattan, and certainly not a type typically served at a fancy bar like this.

“I… think so?”

His eyes return to you and he holds your gaze steadily, commanding your attention. “How about Bailey’s?”

The realization hits you like a truck, nearly knocking you to your feet. You’ve served this before, at your old job on Sunset Strip.

You know the drink, and _he knows_ you know the drink. It’s a Sex With The Bartender.

 _God, holy Christ!_ What the fuck goes into this drink again, anyway? Can you even make it for him? Does he _want_ you to make it for him? Of course he does. Malibu, triple sec, Bailey’s, 7-Up, grenadine—

“I… we… ah… don’t carry… 7-Up…” you stammer stupidly, your heart thudding behind your ribs.

“Aw.” He pouts, sticking out his plump lower lip. “A shame.”

“Can I… get you anything… else?”

Another silence descends upon the two of you like a morning fog. His eyes don’t leave you; you stare back at him, taking in his impossible beauty, reeling over the implications of his request—

 _Maybe he just wanted a fucking drink, Y/N,_ you tell yourself, _calm down._

_But what if…?_

Your eyes traverse his face; you’re able to vividly picture what it would look like between your legs—

“No, darling, quite all right.” He gets to his feet and gathers up his handbag. “I don’t want to keep you here past closing.”

He pulls out an elegant wallet from his bag, unclasping it and thumbing through the bills inside. “You’re a delight to speak with. You deserve a nice tip.”

All you can do is watch in awe as he withdraws four crisp Ben Franklins and lays them on the counter in front of you.

“T-Thank you, sir, I—”

“Call me Mettaton,” he says, placing a small pink card (also procured from his wallet) next to the money and pushing it towards you with two gloved fingertips.

“Call me.” He grins wickedly, turns on his heel and strides away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: omg, I just realized I didn't [link my inspiration for Mettaton's handbag.](https://www.forbes.com/sites/eustaciahuen/2016/04/25/inside-the-hermes-birkin-bag-that-sold-for-record-298000/) I mean... that pRice 
> 
> Also, [his suit](https://www.tomford.com/black-pinstripe-shelton-suit/21SL4Z-516R11.html?cgid=men-ready-to-wear-suits&dwvar_21SL4Z-516R11_color=BLK#start=5) and [his wallet. ](https://us.louisvuitton.com/eng-us/products/twist-wallet-crocodilien-brillant-011341)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains: cunnilingus, dirty talk/humiliation

The next day, you wake up and promptly feel for your phone on the bedside table.

You'd made yourself wait the night before, deciding that you’d call Mettaton in the morning. Your shift ends past midnight, and you figured it would be rude to contact him so late.

As you go to dial the number, you freeze up, a wave of frigid anxiety threatening to drown your excitement.

_I can’t just… call him. He’s… Mettaton._

You stare down at the little pink card in your hand-- your heart feels like it’s trying to force its way up your throat-- and blink deliberately several times, half-expecting it to not be there when you next open your eyes. Maybe this is all just a very good dream?

But alas, the card is still in your hand. So it really did happen, then; Mettaton, the _celebrity,_ really did meander into your workplace right before closing and compliment your looks. He really did order a drink (from _you!_ You!) and he really did sit there like a preening peacock and stir it daintily while asking questions about your life.

He really, really did make his intentions clear. And then, he gave you his number, and now at this very moment you’re going to call him--

You text him.

_ >Hi, it’s the bartender. _

Within moments, a chat bubble appears below your message and your heart hammers in your chest.

_ >hello darling xx _

You set your phone facedown on the mattress beside you. Every fiber in your body wants to respond immediately, but you don’t want to appear desperate.

Eventually, after a painfully slow minute:

_ >What’s up? _

You press send without thinking, and then cringe internally. “What’s up?”, _really?_

You don’t have much time to be embarrassed, as Mettaton once again responds without pause.

_ >it’s my last night in the hotel before I’m back home. _

_ >you work tonight? _

You close your eyes and take a deep, shuddering breath, electricity flooding your veins. God, it’s a dream come true— you’ve got to be fucking _dreaming!_

_ >No, I’m off today. Why do you ask? _

You know why he asks.

> _how convenient. care to join me in my suite later?_

_> 10pm _

_ >drinks are on me this time _

You realize how truly desperate you are for him as the embers of arousal smolder in your core. A violent shiver overtakes you, scampering up the entire length of your spine and leaving you quivering.

_ >That sounds great. _

God, you can’t help yourself:

_ >What do you wanna do tonight? _

You chew impatiently on your lip as the chat bubble appears again; disappears for a moment, and then reappears.

_ >drinks, idle chatter _

_ >and then you _

 ~~

The hallway leading to Mettaton’s suite is dead silent, in stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of the lobby. It’s on the top floor of the building and inaccessible to most guests. You had to ask a bellhop to put a key in and he seemed to have been expecting you, as he did so without question.

You’ve dressed up for the occasion; ensuring that your outfit looks good, that your makeup is perfect. And yet, despite taking every measure to appear at Mettaton’s door looking fantastic, your hands still quake with nervousness. It almost feels like you’re in a dream state as you approach the door at the end of the hall and raise your fist to knock…

Somehow, he’s even more beautiful than he was last night. His perfume hits you first, heady and floral and _intoxicating_ , setting a phenomenal precedent for the man himself.

“I’m so happy you could make it this evening, darling,” he practically purrs, black platform pumps clicking on the marble floor as he moves aside to let you in. He’s dressed in a silky white robe, printed with seashells and sporting intricate gold trim on the sleeves and waist tie. It’s a beautiful piece of clothing, but it strikes you as somewhat casual paired alongside such flashy shoes and a full face of makeup. You can’t help but wonder if he has a surprise outfit hidden underneath...

You step past him, looking around in awe. This is like no hotel room you’ve ever seen. Just from the entryway, you can see it has at least two… _three_ bedrooms through the open doors on either side.

“Is this an apartment?” you ask nervously as you drift past the bedrooms into the expansive parlor.

Mettaton hums as he sidles up behind you; you tense and turn your head, finding him standing mere inches from you. “It’s the Presidential Suite, love.” He gestures for you to sit down on the elegant maroon settee before you. “You’ll find I have rather… luxurious taste.”

You gingerly take a seat, a little worried you might break something just by looking at it. The circular parlor rivals the lobby’s extravagance with white-gold marble flooring and a crystalline chandelier hanging above the small cluster of furniture in the center of the room. On a small, lacquered wooden table sits a silver plate of chocolate-covered strawberries and a fat Ace of Spades champagne bottle alongside two glasses filled with sparkling golden liquid.

Mettaton picks up one of the glasses and wordlessly offers it to you; as you take it, you feel his cool metal fingertips slide rather conspicuously along the back of your hand. You bring the glass to your lips and drink it down like a man lost in a desert, attempting to drown the butterfly wings tickling at your insides. It’s by far the best champagne you’ve ever tasted.

Mettaton places himself delicately on the couch beside you— leaving a polite amount of room— and smooths his silk robe with broad, ungloved palms. You watch sheepishly, turning your empty glass around in your hands, as he takes his champagne from the table and sips at it; probably how you should have gone about drinking yours instead of chugging it like a college student at a draft party.

 _When in doubt… compliments!_ “I… I like your, erm. Robe?”

“Oh, this old thing?” Mettaton chuckles. “You’re sweet. Speaking of…”

He turns to the plate of chocolate strawberries beside him, setting down his glass before plucking one of the ruby red fruits out from the rest. “Strawberry?”

Your initial urge is to decline out of politeness (and fear of juice running down your chin in front of your idol), but his onyx eyes implore you to accept. You nod silently and he slides forward— just an inch— pinching the fruit between forefinger and thumb. You don’t know whether to put out a hand to take it from him, or what; he’s holding the strawberry out of reach for now, so you decide to wait and see…

“There’s no doubt,” Mettaton murmurs, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “that it’s obvious by now what my intentions are for this evening.”

You swallow, heart hammering so hard you swear you can almost hear it. “A-Ah, I think so?”

“Don’t play coy with me.” He slides forward again, one more inch. “I told you rather directly over text, unless you’ve already forgotten…”

He tips his head innocently to one side, glassy eyes sparkling under the light of the chandelier. “Do you want to fuck me, darling?”

You nod vigorously, without hesitation.

He smirks. “Understandable. Anyhoo! We have a few things to discuss beforehand...”

He leans in, his perfume flooding your senses, and holds the strawberry centimeters from your parted lips.

“In all aspects of my life, you’ll find I’m rather… domineering. I’m in charge. I call the shots.” He presses the strawberry against your mouth. “Bite.”

You bite into the fruit in front of you, the chocolate cracking satisfyingly between your teeth. His hand slides up your thigh, sneaking under the hem of your dress; his touch is electrifying and you squirm with anticipation.

“All aspects except one.”

His voice suddenly becomes utterly saccharine, sweeter than the chocolate taste in your mouth; almost unrecognizable compared to his usual commanding, sonorous tone.

“In the bedroom, there is nothing I love more than being treated like…” he inhales, biting his lip, his next words clearly heightening his arousal, “the naughty slut that I am.”

 _Fuck!_ Your crotch burns with deepening desperation, the thrill of such heated words leaping up in your core like ravenous flames. This is certainly not how you expected the night to go (if anything, you were imagining  _yourself_ paddled or hogtied by this rich and dominant celebrity à la _Fifty Shades of Gray_ ), but _this?_

Wow. This is so, so much better.

You lean forward, the sweetness of his breath reeling you in like a fish on a hook; he stops you with a single finger to your lips and you look up at him, puzzled.

“Do not. Fall. In love.” His voice is hard again, clearly the last of his dominance before he submits. He doesn’t need to elaborate; he would be remiss to not remind you that you are merely a very, very lucky fan. Nothing more.

You smile, and (emboldened by the champagne you drank) decide to surprise him:

“Fall in love?” you echo quietly. “With a slut like you?”

His dark eyes widen and he groans beautifully. “Fuck. G-good start, darling.”

You’re the one to finally close the distance between you, crushing your mouth greedily against his. His lips are even softer than you’d expected, plump and plastic and wet, kissing you with ardor. His kisses are frantic, urgent, tasting of champagne and chocolate.

Mouth locked on his, you struggle with reaching over him to set down your champagne glass. Without warning, you feel it yanked from your fingers and the sound of glass shattering against the wall tells you Mettaton has snatched it away and haphazardly thrown it.

You feel his hands at your hips; before you know it, you’re straddling his lap. He puts his lips to your neck, moaning against it as you grind your pelvis down hard on him, humping his formidable bulge through smooth silk.

His dexterous hand sneaks into the unforgiving space between your pelvis and his, fingertips pressing against the soaked fabric of your underwear. You whine, lifting your hips ever so slightly, and he pulls the crotch of your panties aside to slide two fingers up the length of the slick crevice he finds there.

“Let me blow your mind…” he murmurs, looking up at you with a wicked smile as he swirls his fingers counterclockwise between your shivering legs. Your mind is cloudy with desire and honestly, there isn’t anything you want more in the world than _that_ as soon as fucking possible. Remembering his earlier request, you grasp his jaw roughly, reveling in the choked moan that topples from his open mouth.

“What do you say?” you gasp. His eyes roll up into his head, lids fluttering with delight:

“Mistress…”

You were expecting ‘please’, but you decide that suits you just fine.

“Get up and undress,” you say as you climb off of him, still a little unsure about issuing commands to someone so powerful and important. You’ve put much of your inhibition on the back burner for now, though, your thoughts foggy and disjointed from… extraordinary lust? The champagne? Probably both.

“As you wish,” he purrs, getting to his feet. He smiles salaciously, swaying his hips as he toys with the waist tie of his robe. Chest heaving, you watch eagerly as he loosens the tie and allows the robe to slide off of his curvaceous body to reveal stark nakedness beneath.

“You’ve been naked this whole time?” you pant, delirious, your eyes traversing his hourglass body. It’s an impossible figure by any human standards, his broad chest and planetary hips connected by what could only be twenty or so inches around of waist. His gray synthetic skin is shiny and reflective, you notice in awe. Glowing.

You note what you know to be his soul, floating in some sort of clear fluid within a small, transparent chamber at his taut stomach. He’s bared it in many a music video before, and you’ve always found it sexy in a rather exotic sort of way...

“I warned you, I’ve been a naughty boy...” he chirps in a sing-song voice, carelessly kicking his robe away from where it had pooled around his feet. “Like what you’re seeing?”

Of course, your gaze tracks to his groin like it’s magnetized. His pink cock stands at attention, a vibrant change of color on what would otherwise be a mostly monochromatic body. Upon closer inspection, you see another splash of color: viscous purple fluid dripping down from just behind his dick and leaving little spots on the floor.

You knew Mettaton had, for lack of a better term, “both”; he had confirmed it himself in _Cosmopolitan_ a few years back. You couldn't deny having your dirty thoughts consumed by such a notion for quite a while after reading that...

“Yeah,” you reply after a few moments, “Yeah, I really do. Get on your knees, will you?”

He bites his lip again, sinking down to the marble and crawling sensually towards you on all fours. God, how utterly _opposite_ he is compared to the night before! All semblance of the celebrity you’d met at the bar is gone; never for a second did you think you’d be seeing Mettaton-- the indomitable superstar, the cold businessman who surely makes millions (if not _hundreds of millions_ ) of dollars off of his name-- stripped naked on the floor in front of you, gently parting your legs with his hands and pressing his lips to your thigh…

Quite on impulse, you reach forward and smooth his inky black hair with the palm of your hand, feeling rather drunk on power. “You really _are_ a naughty boy, aren’t you, Mettaton?” Saying his name in such a context makes your heart swell with prickles of raw excitement.

“Yes, Mistress,” he huffs into your thigh, the movement of his lips tickling your sensitive flesh and making you shiver, “Oh, _yes..._ ”

You giggle, spreading your legs a little wider, letting him work his way up, and up, and up; centimeters at a time. Your toes curl in your shoes as his mouth reaches the little hollow space where your leg ends and your pelvis begins. He kisses the sodden fabric of your underwear a few times before hooking his fingers in the elastic waistband.

“May I? Please?” he entreats you, looking up at you with wide, pleading eyes. You’re too far gone in your desire now to play dominatrix with him any further; you need his mouth on you urgently.

You nod and he swiftly rids you of your underwear.

“Like what you’re seeing?” you manage breathlessly, parroting him from earlier. He answers your query by-- _finally--_ pressing his lips to your aching pussy, firmly holding your quaking legs apart.

You whine desperately, your head tipping backwards as delicious warmth blossoms within you, running wild like rivulets of pleasure in your bloodstream. It’s obvious Mettaton knows what he’s doing. His tongue moves expertly inside you, thrumming against your clit, swirling between the folds.

You slide forward, unable to keep yourself upright on the settee; Mettaton responds accordingly, hoisting your legs up on his shoulders and delving even deeper into you, licking, sucking, nodding his head.

You fist the soft hair on the back of his skull, crushing his mouth against you; he moans into your cunt, his hot breath heavenly on your hypersensitive skin. _Fuck_ , his tongue is in the perfect place! Your legs shake as the warmth intensifies, flooding your mind and washing away what little was left of your earlier nervousness.

"That's it-- oh my _god,_ right there, y-yes... o-oh, god, I bet you love this, don't you?" Words fly from your mouth as you writhe happily on his chin, waves of bliss surging through your body and fogging your brain. "You dirty little slut, f-fucking me with your t-tongue..." Mettaton's grip tightens considerably on your thighs and he starts to suck noisily on your clit, clearly relishing in your senseless verbal onslaught. 

Your pleasure builds precipitously and all you can think about now is how madly, how fiercely, how _desperately_ you need to cum. Your hips buck upwards on his mouth, rolling over his face as familiar pressure builds in your core...

“ _God_ , I’m g-gonna cum, I’m gonna _cum,_ ” you wail, and Mettaton reintroduces his tongue, picking up speed between your legs, chasing down your imminent orgasm with dedicated enthusiasm.

“F-Fuck, Mettaton, I’m... I’m cumming, _I’m cumming,_ I’m-- _a-a-a-h!_ ”

Your orgasm hits you like a bolt of lightning, consuming you from the inside out. You shudder on Mettaton’s face, crying out with relief as the explosive feeling tears through you, rips you apart. Mettaton holds you in place, continuing his diligent work until your tensed legs fully relax against his cheeks.

He finally places your feet gently back down on the floor and emerges, pushing his hair from his face with a pass of his hand, his mouth smeared with your glistening wetness. He titters at your dazed expression, clearly proud of himself.

“What shall we... do with... you?” you pant once you’ve gained back a little more breath. Mettaton rests his chin on your knee, brow furrowing as he considers this.

“You’re the boss of me tonight, darling, so it’s really up to you. Although… if you need some inspiration…” his lips twist into a mischievous smile, “I did bring something from home with me to, well. Enhance my time alone, let's say. I wasn’t expecting to become my hotel bartender’s bitch when I checked in.” He winks and you feel your heart flutter, his charm intoxicating as ever despite his rather crass choice of words.

“Go get it, then.”

He climbs to his feet and trots off in the direction of the nearest bedroom on the right-hand side of the hallway. You take a deep, shuddering breath, pushing yourself upright on the settee to wait for him.

He returns after a few moments with a black satin pouch and hands it to you before getting back down on his knees. You open the pouch curiously and pull out a (surprisingly heavy) gold sex toy of some sort; skinny at the base and widening considerably as it reaches the tip, attached to a small ring.

“What is this?” you ask, puzzled.

“24-karat gold,” Mettaton says smugly, “I put it in my ass.”

“ _Real gold?_ ” you reiterate, astonished. “How much does that cost?!”

“Oh, honey, I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t check the price on anything unless it’s a new car... new yacht... new house...”

You scoff, thoroughly taken aback by Mettaton’s flippance. “You’re too much.”

“Oh, I _know,_ darling,” he croons, running his hands up your naked thighs. You melt under his touch once again, inhaling deeply. Your desire is creeping back and you find yourself newly hungry for control…

“You don’t think that calls for a little… punishment?”

He moans filthily, squeezing your thighs. “God, I hope so.”

You push him off of you and get to your feet, looking down at him with your hands on your hips.

“Go back to the bedroom, you rich bastard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ʕ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°ʔ  
> You can find [Mettaton's robe](https://www.versace.com/us/en-us/home-collection/bed-bath/bathrobes/etoiles-de-la-mer-silk-robe-z7014/ZACP00002-ZSEP0121_Z7014.html?cgid=560500#start=1) here.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it continues. Escalates, precipitously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're looking for me, I'll be on the curb, waiting for the garbage man to pick me up with the bins.  
> Enjoy, filthy robot fuckers.  
> Contains: cunnilingus, vaginal sex, anal play, spanking, verbal degradation, self-facial

The bedroom, you note deliriously, rivals the size of your entire studio apartment.

Mettaton carelessly discards his high heels and makes a beeline for the bed -- a colossal circular frame and mattress with a pile of plush pillows in the center-- but you have to take pause and look around, the extravagance of everything overwhelming you.

The room is flawlessly put together. On an enormous bay window hang ruby red curtains, perfectly matching the color of the bed’s duvet and the upholstery of a small cluster of armchairs arranged by a gas fireplace. Everything is lush velvet, polished mahogany, grandiose, _expensive,_ luxurious. The only thing out of place is the untidy pile of Mettaton’s luggage on the floor, with one of the brown-and-gold leather cases lying open.

Eyes panning upwards, you can’t help but snort in disbelief. Hanging directly above the bed is a ceiling mirror of equal circumference, backlit with soft white light.

“Yoohoo.” Mettaton waggles his fingers at you, lounging naked on the mattress like 'one of your French girls'. “Do you plan to just stand there and toss that around?”

You look down and realize you’ve been turning his gold sex toy idly in your hands, running your fingers across its smooth surface.

“Sorry, I’m just… this room… I’ve never seen…”

You point up at the mirror with a half-smile and he chuckles. “You like that? It was my idea.”

“Of course it was,” you laugh, setting the toy down on the bedside table before kicking off your shoes and climbing onto the bed with him.

He walks his fingers lazily up your bare thigh, toys with the hem of your skirt. His metallic fingertips administer a new ripple of pleasure with every touch, leaving you with goosebumps. You feel yourself burn with desire once again, despite having just been so thoroughly satisfied not five minutes before.

“There’s more champagne if you want it,” he hums, eyes flicking towards a fresh bottle in an ice bucket on the nightstand. “You look thirsty.”

“Sure,” you whisper, and he reaches for it, his other hand sliding boldly up your skirt as he leans over your lap. Opening it easily with his teeth, he spits the cork onto the floor and takes a swig directly from the bottle before handing it to you. You follow suit; nearly choking on the bubbles as you feel Mettaton’s fingertips wander up between your legs, probing at your wetness.

“Wow,” Mettaton purrs, bringing his fingers to his mouth and dragging them lewdly across his silver tongue. “I’m flattered, darling.”

The liquid courage hits you fast, fanning the flames of your lust. God, he's irresistible.

“I won’t cum so easily this time,” you inform him as calmly as you can manage, setting the champagne carefully back on the table. “And you’re not allowed to until I have, again. Are we clear?”

“Good _gracious,_ ” he marvels, his voice thick like molasses as he kneads your thigh, “You are ridiculously good at this.”

You smack his hand and he yelps, retracting it at once. “I asked you a question. Are we _clear?"_

“Of course. My apologies, Mistress.”

You pause, deliberating on your next move. “I think we’ll need a safeword.”

“Oh my… you really have a lot in store for me, don’t you?” He smiles sweetly, feathery lashes beating against his smooth silver cheekbones. “I tend to use ‘donut’, if that’s agreeable for you.”

 _"'Donut?'"_ you laugh, breaking character. “What’s the story behind that?”

“My first ever dominatrix made pastries for a living. Not a very exciting story, I’m afraid.”

“Huh. ‘Donut’ it is, then.”

Mettaton bites his lip impatiently, his heavy eyes soft as he pulls himself close to you. “Shall we continue?”

You run a languid hand through his hair, the soft plastic tendrils curling slightly around your fingers like they’re grasping for you.

“You… can’t wait… for _anything--_ ” you fist his hair without warning, forcing a wet gasp from his lips, “Can you?”

“Ahh, _fuck,_ ” Mettaton moans through gritted teeth, “I always get what I want…”

You lean down until your mouth is inches from his ear. “Not from me, you spoiled brat.”

Mettaton whimpers needfully, hips wriggling. “Call me a rich bastard again, please--”

“Oh, you’re so pathetic.” You release his hair and sit up straight on your knees. “Stop making demands and turn around. Time for some… reparations.”

He turns on hands and knees, pressing his chest into the mattress while pushing his behind greedily towards you. You stop for a moment to admire the sheer _size_ of his ass, how flawlessly round it is, how the gleaming silicone catches the light. You run a palm up the right cheek and squeeze, his subsequent giggle making you shudder with want, molten desire pooling between your legs--

You raise your hand and spank him. Mettaton squeals with unrestrained glee. “H-harder, please!”

You hit him again; significantly harder this time, his synthetic flesh rippling from the blow. “Tell me what you are,” you sneer, dying to hear him grovel.

“ _A-ah!_ I’m a… a filthy pervert,” he exclaims enthusiastically, and you can’t help the moan that escapes you. You smack him again, on the left cheek this time. “A whiny-- _ah!--_ d-desperate little slut.”

“You’re damn right.” You spank him in earnest now, right side, left side, again and again, over and over, relishing in the wails of delight you elicit with every blow. After a minute of this, you pause to knead the sore flesh, running a hand down between his spread legs to feel his deluged cunt twitch on your fingertips before resuming your merciless spanking. Mettaton cries out passionately, endlessly, as his legs tremble and spasm.

“Thank you, Mistress... I needed that...” he sighs when you finally cease your assailment, your lack of stamina getting the best of you. Panting, a hand still gripping his ass; you watch as a thin rivulet of… precum? Robot lubricant? Same thing? You can’t say for certain… dribbles from his glistening slit and slides down his thigh. Now that you’re so close up, you can see that it’s not merely purple in color but deeply pearlescent, leaving a glittering trail on his gray skin in its wake.

The lewd sight invokes in you an ungodly lust that leaves you quivering with need. You simply can’t bear to not be touched anymore.

“Get on your back,” you croak, clambering on top of him once he does so. He stares up at you with adoring eyes as you straddle him and yank your dress over your head, baring yourself completely to him for the first time. His eyes glint like obsidian, clearly devouring the sight of your body above him. Looking directly into his face detonates yet another shockwave of excitement in your core, giving you a violent shiver; despite all that has happened tonight, there’s still a small part of you in disbelief that it’s real, that it’s _Mettaton_ you have here between your legs…

After a few electric seconds, you sit up on your knees and reach down to position his cock, smooth like silk, beneath you. His palms alight on your thighs as you sink down onto him with a long, satisfied sigh, your head tipping back as you feel his cock stretch you apart, fill you up.

“ _God-d-d-d-d…_ you’re so t-t-t-t-tight…” Mettaton moans softly, his lovely voice glitching and dissolving into static as sudden clouds of steam burst from the vents on his cheeks.

You ride him slowly, almost lazily at first; fondling your own breasts, indulging in the groans and gasps you’re pushing from Mettaton’s lips, carefully building your arousal even further. You can feel it coiling in your belly like a spring, dangerously close to snapping loose. Your mind grows hazy, your lusty thoughts indistinct and nebulous...

Unable to take it anymore, you flop forward, digging your fingers into his pectorals. “Fuck me.”

His grip tightens on your thighs at once and he delivers you a brutal first thrust that leaves you reeling. You gasp, pressing yourself against him chest-to-chest as he slams into you with superhuman strength.

Your blissful cries mingle with his like melody and harmony. Every jolt of his hips, every smack of his pelvis against you gives you a fresh stab of pleasure in your core, building, rising, climbing, hurtling towards that surge of ecstasy you’re so desperate for. Mettaton doesn't stop for a single second; maintaining a savage rhythm, he snarls disgracefully, rutting into you like an animal--

“ _F-f-f-f-fuck,_ I’m close,” Mettaton hisses, eyes closed, brow furrowed,  “I’m so close--”

 _No!_ Your own orgasm hovers close to the brink, but not quite close enough. You sit up abruptly and push yourself away, forcing his cock out of you. His eyes fly open and he mewls in protest, his hands scrabbling at your body; you smack them away until he gives up, squirming between your legs.

You tease his plump top lip with your thumb as you wait for him to settle, further smudging his already smeared black lipstick.

“I cum first,” you remind him gently. He nods, kissing your fingertip.

You walk forward on your knees until he’s looking up between your legs. “Tell me what you want, Mettaton.”  

“Sit on my face,” he begs obediently, “Please, Mistress, sit on my face, I want to make you cum…”

“ _Ohh_ ,” you breathe as a shiver waltzes up your spine, “Good boy.”

You lower yourself just until you can feel his warm breath on your throbbing pussy; reaching down, you pull yourself apart with two fingers for him. “Lick.”

Mettaton’s fingers take the place of yours before his tongue lodges itself firmly in your cunt for the second time that night. Gripping his hair to steady yourself, you twitch your hips on the warm, tensed surface, keening and gasping with abandon, nearly sobbing as he employs his tactics from before. He supplicates for your orgasm with his tongue, lapping with dogged determination, sighing and moaning into your pussy as if it were the sweetest of desserts.

You look down at him and notice he’s staring past you with lidded eyes; another shudder of dirty pleasure washes over you when you realize he’s most certainly watching himself eat you out in the mirror above.

“Look at you,” you manage just as you begin to lose yourself, “Right where you… belong--”

He lets out an encumbered moan and jabs at the perfect spot with his tongue, finally tipping you over the edge. You spasm on his chin, sighing with relief as the tremendous feeling wells up inside you, flooding your senses, quenching your burning desperation.

You roll off of him when you’re certain you’ve finished, muscles shaking from the exertion.

“Your turn?” you ask teasingly, breathless.

“ _I’m b-b-begging,_ ” Mettaton pleads, pushing himself up on his elbows, “Please, Mistress--”

 _God,_ he’s a mess. His lipstick is smeared and his running mascara leaves inky tracks down his face. Steam hisses from his cheeks; his hair, damp from the water vapor, sticks to his forehead and, best of all, his mouth and chin are glossy with your cum.

Seeing him like this, you figure he’s earned it.

You crawl across the bed to the nightstand and fetch Mettaton’s gold toy. “What’s your favorite position with this?”

You watch, astonished, as Mettaton rocks backwards, pulling his knees over and behind his head until his body is curled like a conch. “Put it in me… and finish me off like this...”

“Wh--” The position strikes you as unduly odd, more suitable for a contortionist act than sex. It can’t be comfortable, even for someone flexible like Mettaton--

Oh. _Oh._

His cock is aligned perfectly above his own face.

Mettaton licks his lips eagerly, his dark eyes sliding sideways to look at you. “ _Please,_ ” he gasps, and you scramble forward, placing yourself just behind his head.

Running a tentative finger down between his asscheeks, you find he’s self-lubricating-- because _of course he is._ You ease the solid gold into him, smiling at his strangled, wet groan of satisfaction, until all that’s visible is the ring at the base.

“Humiliate me, Mistress,” he implores breathlessly and, fuck, you’re more than happy to oblige.

“ _Christ,_ Mettaton,” you pant, laughing derisively as you reach for his cock, tugging gently to start, “You’ve really got the whole world fooled, don’t you? You’re nothing but a bottom bitch. Who would have thought?”

He keens in amorous agreement, more steam erupting from his face. “F-f-f-f-fuck yes, I’m a pervert, a dirty pervert--”

Your grip tightens around his length; with your other hand, you hook your finger in the gold ring protruding from his ass and pull, just until you feel resistance, before pushing it back to the base again.

“You’re just a filthy slut with too much money.”

 _“Ohhh, y-y-yes--_ ”

You jerk him in earnest now and his breathing grows labored and high-pitched, whimpering with each heavy exhale.

“Oh my-- oh my _god,_ ” he cries, legs spasming, “I’m gonna-- I’m gonna cum--”

“Cum, then, you rich bastard.”

He sobs, eyes rolling up into his head, as his cock expels cum in great spurts, thoroughly coating his face. He opens his mouth, groaning shamelessly as it splatters across his tongue. His body shudders; you keep pulling at him tenaciously as he covers himself with more and more of the sparkling fluid, so much more than any human could ever produce...

Finally, after several long seconds, it ebbs.

As you release him and lean back on your hands, thoroughly exhausted, Mettaton’s mouth stretches into a puckish grin, cackling gleefully as he eases himself forward and extracts the toy from himself. Your fatigue is catching up to you but even still, you can’t help but laugh along with him.

“You are _fucking_ disgusting,” you chuckle. He brings the sticky golden toy to his mouth, sustaining eye contact with you as he sucks on it.

“What was that, darling?” he asks innocently after pulling it from his lips with a loud, wet  _pop._

You snort. “You heard me.”

“I did,” he chirps, smug like you’d just complimented him. “You love it.”

“I… I do,” you admit, flopping backwards on the mattress.

“I knew you would from the moment I laid eyes on you.” Mettaton runs a finger down the side of your body. “Shall we move you to another bedroom? We’ve made a mess of this bed.”

Honestly, you had half-expected him to send you home the moment he was finished with you. You're utterly spent, so this is a welcome surprise. “Sure,” you murmur. Eyes barely open, you move to sit up; you feel his arms around you before you can do so, lifting you with ease and carrying you into the hallway.

“That’s the convenient thing about suites,” he quips, “One room for sex, one room for sleep, and one room for… I don’t know, extra.”

“Rich bastard,” you mutter sleepily, and he chuckles.

“Oh, just wait until you see my house, darling. My Bel Air house, that is. I have several.” You’re too exhausted for the implications of his gloating words-- _he wants to see you again--_ to register. The moment he places you on the fresh bed and leaves you to clean himself, you can feel sleep eating at the corners of your consciousness.  

Just before you fall asleep, Mettaton’s arms are around you once again. When you wake the next morning, you’re alone in the suite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based the hotel room loosely on [this. ](https://www.alux.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/03/a7ac6717f5dbe20ca16939f777fba777_w644.jpg)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mettaton can rev my engine anytime if you know what I mean haha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, fucking finally I got this chapter finished (and I have a lot of headway on the next one too!)  
> This chapter was really research-intensive, as I'm not exactly an expert on supercars or illegal street racing. Supercar transmissions are totally foreign to me so I literally had to learn how to drive one of these fuckers from a Youtube video.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

You’re checking your phone constantly. You set it facedown, try to focus on something else, and then find yourself pawing for it again; desperate to see if he’s texted you.

He hasn’t.

You’ve started showing up to work with your makeup done and your hair carefully styled, on the off-chance that he may stop by again for another drink. You peer over the heads of patrons at the bar, scanning the lobby just beyond the restaurant in hopes of seeing a glimmer of silver skin. Sometimes, you’ll spot a particularly tall, dark-haired guest in your periphery and you’ll turn on a dime, thinking it’s _him--_

It isn’t.

You don’t hear from him for a full week; not a peep. You begin to wonder if your hopes of ever hearing from him again are riding on falsehood...

Until late afternoon, on a Thursday. You’re sitting on your bed, buttoning your work shirt when, suddenly, you get a text from your boss:

_ >can u get his autograph for me?? _

You frown, confused. How on earth could she have found out about--

As if on cue, Mettaton’s call arrives.

“Hello?”

“Hell _oooo,_ darling." His voice is rather unmistakable: low in register, dripping in dramatism, with an ever-so-slight lisp that just makes him sound all the more pretentious. You feel your excitement skyrocket like a power surge in your veins.

“H-how… how are you?” You can’t think of any better thing to say. It feels like you haven’t spoken to him in twenty lifetimes.

“Oh, splendid. Even more so than usual, knowing that I’ll be seeing you later this evening.”

“I can’t tonight,” you tell him reluctantly, “I work.”

“No, you don’t. Your supervisor is a rather understanding sort of woman. I love that.”

“Wait… did you--” You don’t even have to ask. Of course he did.

“You have the next three days off… and so do I. Looks like our schedules match up perfectly!”

“ _Three days?!”_ you clarify, alarmed. Three days of salary isn’t exactly something you can just skip out on, not with the exorbitant rent on your North Hollywood studio.

“Relax, darling, I made sure it's paid time off. Special circumstances.” You can almost hear him wink through the phone.

“Oh my god.” You can’t help but laugh. You have to admit, his spontaneity excites you.

“Anyhoo, text me your address. I’ll be there around midnight.”

You frown. “Why so late? I mean… I’m free now...”

He scoffs. “I drive  _hypercars,_ darling. Much too expensive for sitting in LA traffic.”

 _What the fuck makes a car ‘hyper?’,_ you wonder. “Alright, point taken. Midnight it is.”

You hear sheets rustling on the other line; in your mind's eye, you can picture him lounging on a king bed somewhere. “I know you’re impatient, baby. I’d be too, if I were you.”

You flop backwards onto your own bed, grinning, like a teenager talking to her prom date. “Funny, last time I remember, _you_ were the one begging for _me_.”

“Touché.” His voice is warm, smooth like velvet. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

“I can’t wait.” You find yourself surreptitiously folding one leg over the other, rocking your hips ever so slightly. You really, truly, honestly _cannot wait._

“Midnight, then. And be punctual, darling, don’t make me wait for you. Toodles!”

“Oka--” You hold the phone away from your ear-- he’s already hung up.

You text him your address before flipping over onto your side, curling into a ball and closing your eyes. Your arousal nags you for attention, burning in your stomach, asking to be put out. You ignore it, determined to sleep for a few hours instead of tend to it.

You have a feeling you’ll be needing a little extra energy.

 ~~

Even California gets chilly at night. You draw your sweater closer around you and hug your bag-- packed with a couple changes of clothes-- to your chest.

The street outside of your apartment building is swathed in darkness; the streetlamps have flickered on, but they’re hardly helpful. The bulbs are old and dim, only illuminating little circles of light on the ground directly below them and nowhere else.

You notice a low humming sound knitting itself into the noises of night: wind through leaves, crickets chirping in the hedge, the occasional distant car horn. You don’t think anything of it until it grows increasingly-- and rapidly-- louder, from a hum to a growl to a deafening roar.

Headlights blaze suddenly across cracked pavement as the loudest, pinkest, shiniest, most _ridiculous_ car you’ve ever seen barrels down your street like it’s been shot from a cannon; or loosed from a bow, more like, as its nose is triangular and sharp like an arrowhead.

The car comes to a halt in front of your building, directly under a streetlamp. Its baby pink body shimmers, even in such dim light.

 _What kind of rich people nonsense_ \-- _?_

A small yellow crest catches your eye. Shield-shaped, with a black horse rearing up on its hind legs.

Oh. It’s a Ferrari. He came to pick you up from your apartment, at midnight, in a Ferrari. And not just _any_ Ferrari, that’s exceedingly clear; whatever this Barbie Batmobile thing is, you can tell by its alien build that it’s a cut above the rest. Several cuts. A 'hypercar', you suppose.

The deafening engine shuts off and the doors open, lifting vertically on their own like a pair of sleek wings. You can’t see him yet, as the car is quite low to the ground and he’s in the seat farthest from you--

“Get in, loser, we’re going shopping.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes at his choice of movie quote, and approach the car. Ducking inside is like clambering through a wormhole into another dimension; a much ritzier one. Even the air feels more expensive inside.

“Hi, Mettaton,” you say, folding your hands in your lap. Your eyes are fixed on the doors as they slide down and lock into place. Of course, you’ve seen videos of cars with butterfly doors but you’ve never been anywhere close to one, never mind _in_ one.

“Long time no see, babydoll.”

He’s dressed casually: a black Givenchy t-shirt dress, a white leather jacket, ruby red lipstick and--

“Sunglasses at night?” you note.

He pulls them down the bridge of his prominent nose to look at you over the frames with a smarmy grin. “It's fashionable. Sue me.”

Mettaton starts his car with the press of a button on his rectangular steering wheel and the engine thunders like an angry bull.

“Nice car.”

“I know, darling. Wanna drive?”

“No, thanks.”

“Hmm. Perhaps another time.” The car lurches forward, makes a squealing U-turn and takes off down the street before you even have your seatbelt on. He turns onto the boulevard and accelerates right up to a stoplight.

You let out a small breath, realizing suddenly that you’ve been holding air in your lungs from the moment Mettaton hit the gas.

“Look, another Ferrari,” Mettaton remarks, indicating a sleek black car with that telltale yellow crest idling next to you at the light. “Twinsies!”

“Does every wealthy person in LA take their car out at midnight on a Thursday?” you ask, baffled by the coincidence.

“Anyone with a sports car out this late is probably looking for a race,” he replies distractedly, black eyes narrowing behind his tinted glasses as he leans forward to look past you. The black Ferrari is revving its engine repeatedly.

Mettaton laughs mockingly, visibly disgusted. “A 458? Versus _me?"_ He curls his lip. “Huh. Masochists, I suppose.”

“W-Wait, you’re not going to--” But Mettaton rips off his sunglasses and mashes the button on the steering wheel, producing long, deafening roars from the motor.

“ _Mettaton, that’s ille--"_ The light turns green and Mettaton’s car leaps into motion, going from zero to seventy, eighty, ninety miles an hour in a matter of seconds. The power of the acceleration shoves your whole body into the backrest; you grip the edges of your seat, teeth gritted as both Mettaton and the other driver swerve recklessly around a Prius in the way.

“Mettaton, please, I don’t want to die,” you manage in a strangled voice, your heart thrumming wildly in the back of your throat.

"You'll be fine, darling, I’m a great driver!” he laughs raucously, running a stop sign. “We’re gonna give them the impression that they can win until we reach the 101.”

You find yourself too terrified to speak as he careens down the on-ramp and merges onto the freeway, neck and neck with the other Ferrari. He zips past slow-moving traffic, left lane, middle lane, left lane, middle lane, ignoring the angry blaring of car horns.

“Watch this!” he yells over the bellowing motor once you reach an empty stretch of freeway, flicking a switch protruding from the steering wheel. The wheel lights up, the engine sings, and Mettaton rockets past his opponent in a fraction of a second, screaming down the highway at-- you frantically check the digital odometer--  _two hundred and twenty_ miles an hour.

“ _Byeeee!"_  he squeals, delighted. The other Ferrari is gone from the rear view mirror, left in the dust.

“ _Seventy!"_  you shriek, pointing wildly at a speed limit sign on the side of the highway; far behind you in milliseconds. To your great relief, Mettaton eases off of the gas pedal, dropping his car back down to a hundred and forty--

“You steer, darling!” he shouts, “I wanna show you something!”

“Wait, _what?!"_ But he’s taking his hands off of the steering wheel, and you have no choice but to lunge over and grab it.

“ _Mettaton!"_ To your horror, you see the winged doors opening on either side. The odometer display is hovering around a hundred. The night air cracks against your face like ruthless whips, dragging tears from the corners of your eyes.

Mettaton laughs maniacally. His foot still on the gas pedal, he leans over and sticks out a hand, dragging his metal fingertips along the asphalt of the highway. Sparks leap up from the contact in bursts of orange and white, crackling like Fourth of July fireworks.

You lay on the horn to warn the cars ahead, but you’re approaching much too quickly for them to move, so you have no choice but to jerk the wheel and change lanes. Steering Mettaton's car is like trying to saddle a cheetah; its controls are hypersensitive and you end up swerving erratically between lanes, screaming obscenities at the top of your lungs while trying to regain a straight path.

Right before you crash into the car in front of you, Mettaton jerks up and takes control of the wheel again, skidding over three lanes and missing the car by a hair. The doors close around you and he powerslides up the nearest off-ramp, white smoke billowing on either side as his car cuts across the sidewalk and into a gas station parking lot before he finally-- _thankfully--_ screeches to a halt and kills the engine.

You turn on him without pause, outraged. “ _Are you out of your fucking mi--"_

He grasps your face and crushes his lips against yours with a needy groan, cutting you off mid-sentence. Despite your anger, you find yourself kissing back immediately, passionately, matching his fervor. Between your near-death experience and the disgraceful sounds of pleasure Mettaton’s putting into your mouth, blood-boiling adrenaline overwhelms any coherent thought.

You hear him fumbling with the seatbelts-- first his, and then yours-- and within a matter of seconds he’s on top of you, straddling you in your seat, pushing his tongue feverishly onto yours in the small cavern of your mouth.

The kissing is noisy and obscene, intermingled with desperate gasps and fragmented moans. Your hands can’t be everywhere on him at once, but they’re certainly doing their damnedest; caressing his neck, sliding up and down his chest, reaching around and squeezing his plump ass. Your anger is gone for the time being, kissed away, and all that matters now is Mettaton grinding down hard in your lap, Mettaton’s palms on your flushed cheeks, Mettaton’s sweet heaving breaths hot and humid in your mouth and _god_ , those sounds Mettaton’s making-- positively filthy.

After a long, frenetic minute, Mettaton’s lips leave yours, dragging along with them a small string of saliva that ties your mouth to his for a split second before breaking. He considers you with a smug expression on his face; all you can do is sit there under him, panting with exhaustion.

“Well, aren’t you a sight to be seen,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone. “You look good covered in my lipstick.”

“You… are fucking… crazy…” is all you can manage.

He hums mirthfully-- a sound akin to a scheming Disney villain-- as his lips twist into a tight, mischievous smirk. “Oh, I’m well aware. Isn’t it fun?”

“That’s… one word for it.”

Eyes lidded, he grits his porcelain teeth lustfully, sucking in air with a sharp whistling noise. “ _God,_ you make me so hard…” He leans down, brushing his lips against your ear. “Ever fucked in a three million dollar car, sweetheart?”

His come-on, unfortunately for him, has the opposite effect on you; that insanely exorbitant price quote dislodges the cloud of lust cloaking your frontal lobe, jarring you back to practicality.

You push him away, staring in disbelief. “Are you serious? Three _million_ dollars?”

He straightens up in your lap, his face a portrait of nonchalance as he runs a hand through his hair. “Serious as a heart attack, darling.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He stares down at you, his coal-black eyes intense. “So… have you?”

“Have I what?”

He blinks. “Fucked in a three million dollar car.”

“Obviously not.”

He chuckles, leaning forward to kiss the side of your face. “First time for everything…”

You allow your eyes to close, indulging in the feeling of his lips moving against your skin, caressing your jaw, sucking gently on your neck. Your hand wanders lazily up his thigh to fondle him; through his underwear, you feel his cock twitch on your palm and he sighs into your neck, biting gently as he rocks his hips against your hand--

You push him away again. “Nah.”

He looks stunned. Good. “ _Nah?"_

“Naaaaaaah.” You smile; it's your turn to feel mischievous. “Not until I punish you for nearly killing us just now.”

A prurient smile stretches the corners of his mouth. He bites his lip, shoulders rising dramatically as a shiver evidently runs up his spine. “ _Ooh_ , yes, _ma’am._ I can’t wait.” He swings his leg back around and quickly settles in the driver’s seat, starting his obnoxious car once again; a man on a mission, clearly eager to get you home. 

“Okay, but seriously, I’m begging you,” you plead as you re-fasten your seatbelt, “ _please_ drive the fucking speed limit this time.”

He grins nastily, revving the engine. “Just for you, darling… I’ll only go double.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here we go with the references:
> 
> Mettaton's outfit is described as a [t-shirt dress](https://www.givenchy.com/america/en/gemini-embroidered-t-shirt-dress/BW20DJ3Z18-001.html?cgid=DAY_DRESS_W#start=1), a [leather jacket](https://www.givenchy.com/america/en/oversized-leather-jacket/BW30566059-150.html?cgid=BLOU_W#start=1), and [sunglasses](https://www.givenchy.com/america/en/sunglasses-in-acetate-and-metal/BR0011R00M-001.html?cgid=EYEWEAR_W#start=1) (all from Givenchy).
> 
> His car is a [2013 Ferrari LaFerrari](https://auto.ferrari.com/en_EN/sports-cars-models/past-models/laferrari/), with a custom [pink body.](http://www.agent4stars.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/pink-laferrari-600x450.jpg)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *"Versace on the Floor" plays softly in the distance*  
> Well, technically, Givenchy on the floor, but close enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is to X/Reader erotica as Insane Clown Posse is to music.  
> Enjoy!  
> Contains: sex toys, anal play, vaginal sex, verbal degradation, vibrator torture, begging, handcuffs, pseudo-blowjob (???), masturbation

“Anyhoo— darling, must you stop and stare at _every_ room you walk into?”

You can’t help yourself. The interior of Mettaton’s estate is even more extravagant than what you saw of the outside. Everything is so grand, so shiny, so over-the-top, you feel like you could stand in any given area of the house for hours and still notice something new every time you turn your head.

His master bedroom is, of course, the most ridiculous display of wealth you’ve ever seen in your life and from Mettaton, you’d been expecting nothing less. It’s like the throne room of a Renaissance castle; there is not a single thing that isn’t made of gold, marble, lacquered wood or velvet, all of it surrounding what is without question the largest four-poster canopy bed you’ve ever seen in your life— posited in the center of the room on a circular marble pedestal.

“Wow, this is… this is amazing.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Mettaton takes your bag from you and sets it down in a nearby chair. “The mansion itself was inspired by French baroque architecture, so in terms of interior design, I wanted it all sort of, you know.” He wiggles his fingers cutely, rolling his eyes with a smug little smile as his tone of voice leaps to a sing-songy register. “On the-e-eme.”

“Right,” you murmur distractedly, eyeing a hulking wooden armoire against the far wall. It’s so outrageously large, you probably wouldn't be shocked to find Narnia in its entirety beyond its ornately carved double doors.

“The bed is here, obviously.” Mettaton leads you farther into the room, trailing a finger along the thick, creamy material of the bed’s canopy. “Bathroom is through there, closet is here— ”

You look at the door he’s indicated as his closet—  locked with a keypad— and then glance back at the armoire, a bit confused.

“What’s that for, then?” You point at the mammoth piece of furniture. The smile on Mettaton’s face deepens dramatically, his coy expression morphing to downright devilish.

“Oh, how could I forget?” he purrs, his tone of voice indicating that he hadn’t forgotten it at all. “I think you’ll find this especially interesting…”

He flounces over to the wardrobe and throws open the doors. “Well, come see for yourself, hmm?”

You join him by the armoire and discover that, in fact, it’s not an armoire or any sort of ordinary wardrobe at all; all the sex toys and bondage tools you can possibly imagine, including quite a few more that you haven’t the slightest idea about, are spread out before you on the shelves and hooks inside.

So, not Narnia— but, you’ll admit, this is equally intriguing.

In your periphery, you see Mettaton let his leather jacket slide from his shoulders and drop to the floor. He sidles up behind you, feigning a bit of innocence until his arms ensnare your waist.

“Don’t you think it’s time we… have a little fun, sweetheart?”

His hands snake up to the swell of your chest, squeezing hungrily. You can’t help but gasp, tilting your head to one side as he buries his face in the crook of your neck; kissing and sucking on your skin. Your eyelids flutter as your excitement really begins to rise and, remembering your succession of orgasms during your time at the hotel, you shiver in his arms. He laughs a little, lips tickling, before carrying on with the worship of your neck. 

You force your eyes open and mull over the vast array of toys in the wardrobe. “Are any of these…” _fuck,_ it’s hard to stay focused, “...especially appealing to you?”

“Mmm,” Mettaton emerges from your neck for a moment, pulling your hips to his groin and shamelessly rubbing himself against you. “My newest one is here…”

He leans forward over your back, forcing you to bend at the waist until you have to rest your hands on the shelf before you. Your feet spread a little wider on the floor as he points to the toy in question (a silicone plug sitting next to a remote) and his other arm secures itself around your middle, holding you steady as he humps you.

“It vibrates,” he breathes directly in your ear, “And you can control it wirelessly. Utilize that information how you see fit.”

“I definitely will,” you assure him. He resumes his eager kisses, starting with the corona of your ear and working his way back down to your neck.

You let him indulge in grinding on you for only a few moments more before you reach for a pair of handcuffs, hanging on a small hook in the back of the armoire. Hearing the jingling of the chain, he lifts his face—  just a few centimeters— to see what you’ve selected.

“Just handcuffs? How vanilla,” he muses teasingly. You straighten up abruptly in his arms and he loosens his grip. You can tell by his tone of voice that he’s testing you, seeing how much sass he can get away with before—

“Be patient,” you scold, turning to face him. “Don’t be a brat.”

“ _Nngh,_ yeah… I’m such a brat...”

You can’t help but chuckle; his ardent enthusiasm for verbal degradation is equal parts humorous and hot as hell.

His hand sneaks down his front to fondle himself through his dress and you snap out of your amusement at once. You reach forward to grab the offending hand, yanking it from between his legs. “See, this is why we need handcuffs. You don’t know how to behave.”

“Squeeze my wrist,” he huffs encouragingly and you tighten your grip as hard as you can, grinding your teeth, knowing that any amount of pressure you exert won’t come close to the amount necessary to cause actual damage on what you assume are metal wrist bones. He whines prettily, his angular jaw slackening, and you pull him down to face-level by his wrist, kissing him to trap the sound in your mouth.

“You’re going to take off your dress,” you murmur against his lips, feeling a thrill of dominance as he moans softly in agreement, “and then you’re going to go over and wait for me on your bed. And if I catch you touching yourself again, you’ll be in real trouble. You hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Mistress,” he whispers, his voice smooth and thick with lust. You release his wrist and turn back to the selection of toys as he parts from you, his high-heels echoing on the marble floor.

It takes a minute for you to decide on everything; in the meantime, you pull your sweater over your head and toss it in the approximate direction of your bag, followed closely by your shoes and pants. Once you’ve made your final selections, you turn to find Mettaton has done exactly as you’d asked. His dress lies discarded on the floor and he’s lounging on his bed, watching you intensely, wearing only a pair of black panties and his heels—  white leather with ruby red soles.

You bring the toys over to the bed and set them all down on the mattress before joining him, the crisp sheets rustling as you crawl to his side. He reaches for you and you practically collapse into his arms, pressing your half-naked body to his soft chest as you kiss him, the coolness of his plexiglass soul window a satisfying feeling on your bare stomach.

He moves to pull you forward into a straddle but you break the kiss before he can do so and sit up on your knees. “Turn around, hands behind your back.”

He follows your instructions dutifully. “What, am I under arrest?” he laughs as you affix the handcuffs to his wrists.

“You may as well be,” you say as you lean over him and push one side of his face into the mattress. “Face down, ass up.”

He moans and wiggles his hips in the air, shifting his knees apart when he feels your fingers on the thin waistband of his panties. You slide them down over the formidable curve of his ass, the ache between your legs spiking precipitously as you admire his unique genitalia.

In this position, his vagina is on display front and center; a neat slit, edged with snowy white silicone skin. You slide your middle and index fingertips between the folds, marveling at the astonishing wetness you discover, and he pushes his hips back against your hand with a sigh of contentment.

You withdraw your sticky fingers after a few moments, smiling at his little whines of protestation. You don’t leave him suffering long; moments later, you’re back with his remote control buttplug in one hand, massaging his own wetness into the soft, puckered divot of his asshole with the other.

“I’m surprised this one isn’t solid gold too,” you joke as you push the plug in with little resistance.

“Right?” Mettaton laughs breathlessly, “Rather off-brand, don’t you thi— _a-h-hh..._ ”

You’ve switched on the remote; on low speed for now, but it’s enough to make him quiver, breathing hard, his cheeks tensing as he clenches around the toy.

“I kinda wanna just leave you here like this all night,” you remark idly as your hand wanders into your own underwear. Even without champagne this time, you’re drunk on your power again and you can’t help but touch yourself, seeing him like this, knowing _you put him like this—_

“No!” Mettaton wriggles like an animal in a trap, his panic evident. “Please, Mistress, please fuck me, please do _something_... I’ve been such a good boy—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

You laugh (not even a ‘teasing domme’ sort of laugh; genuine, because the notion of Mettaton being a ‘good boy’ in any way, shape or form is just that absurd).

“You are the most selfish—”

“Yes!"Mettaton moans happily.

“Entitled—”

“ _God, yes—_ ”

“Greedy little bitch boy that I’ve ever met.”

Mettaton sobs as a spasm wracks his body, his cunt twitching with need and dribbling copious amounts of precum onto the sheets below him. You rub harder, pleased with yourself in a filthy sort of way as you feel the slick, sodden crotch of your underwear sliding against your knuckles.

An enticing idea suddenly occurs to you, conceived from the depths of your vulgar state of mind. You had, after all, promised to punish Mettaton for his reckless driving on the highway, but you hadn’t thought of exactly _how_ you wanted to do it. Until now.

You choose a pink vibrator from the pile of toys and pull it closer before crawling into Mettaton’s rather limited line of sight.

“No one else can get away with shit like you can,” you say soberly as you pull off your panties. Mettaton watches you, wide-eyed, whimpering as you lean back on your elbows and spread your legs for him. “You think you’re above it all, don’t you, just because you’re rich? And then you have the _nerve_ to tell me… you’ve been _good?_ ”

You tease the head of the dildo at your entrance, toes curling as it brushes against your sore clit. “You’re gonna have to grovel for my forgiveness. Unless you just want to stay there like that and—” you grunt as you push the tip of the cock inside, “watch me fuck myself all night.”

“ _Mmm, god!"_ Steam fizzles from Mettaton’s exposed cheek vent, a damp spot forming on the sheets where the other vent is pressed to the bed. “I swear, you’re going to be the death of me, sweetheart.”

You slide the dildo in halfway before moving your hands, giving Mettaton a good eyeful of the pink shaft protruding from you. “Looks a little like your dick, doesn’t it? Too bad it won’t ever be unless—”

“ _Ngh,_ okay, okay— I… I, um…” Mettaton's brow furrows as he thinks hard, his eyes wild with desperation. “I bought a Lamborghini with cash—”

This catches you off guard. “I… you better not be telling me that just to brag.”

“No! N-No,” Mettaton cries deliriously, “I only did it because I’m a show-off, because— _mm, fuck,_ I’m a little bitch, Mistress, please forgive me, look, I'm repenting—”

You smile, holding back a giggle; finding the remote for Mettaton’s plug, you turn it up a notch. “Not exactly what I was thinking of, but you’re getting somewhere. Keep going.”

Mettaton grits his teeth at the increased sensation, his mascara running as his eyes water. “What mor-more do you want?!”

“What did you do _today,_ Mettaton?” you insist, turning up the plug even more. “What do you need to be punished for?”

 _“Oh, g-g-g-g-god,_ ” Mettaton wails, his voice skipping mechanically, _“I can’t think straight, Mistress, it’s go-going too fa-a-a-a-ast—"_

Mettaton’s pleas are ungodly arousing to you. You push your vibrator in a little more before turning it on. The moment it buzzes to life, the dull ache in your pussy becomes a delicious, searing burn and you can tell you’re already close. “Too fast?! You’d know about that, wouldn’t you—”

“ _Ah!"_  Despite the torture of the plug, sudden understanding floods Mettaton’s dark eyes. “I drove too fast! You t-told me to slow down and I did-didn’t and now I’m paying the price, aren’t I, _fuck, yes, I deserve it, Mistress!”_

That does it; your head tips back as your orgasm surges through you like a tidal wave. Mettaton whines throatily as he watches you cum and the pitiful sound makes you shudder, your hips bucking involuntarily until you’ve ridden the aftershocks to their blissful extent.

You turn off Mettaton's plug first, grinning at Mettaton’s sigh of relief, before easing out your dildo. Your pussy makes the most appalling sticky sound as you pull it out and you can’t help but flush when you discover the toy's shaft is coated with cum. You glance over at Mettaton to see if he’s noticed; he absolutely has, it’s apparent on his face, and the way he’s eyeing the toy gives you another delicious idea.   

“Sit up and clean this cock off for me, and then I’ll give you a nice reward.”

Mettaton straightens up, his powerful thighs enabling him to do so easily without the use of his hands for leverage. You offer the dildo out to him and he shuffles forward on his knees, drawing his tongue up the hard rubber shaft of the toy with a moan of gratitude before enveloping it in his mouth.

“How’s it taste?”

“ _Mmmmmm.”_ Mettaton inches his way down its length, his eyelids fluttering like hummingbird wings. He takes it to the base and holds it in for a few good, long seconds before bobbing his head, blowing it in earnest, his thick lips dragging shiny saliva up and down the shaft.  

“I wonder what all the magazines would say if they saw you like this?” you gasp, feeling a bit dizzy with newfound arousal as you watch him. You run your fingers through his hair with your free hand, lacing thick clumps of it between them before tightening your grip and pushing his head all the way back down, disappearing the toy down his throat. “I think everyone would be pretty shocked to find out how much of a pervert you are.”

Mettaton grunts and attempts to speak, his words obviously unintelligible. You separate his mouth from the dildo with a yank of his hair. “What was that?”

“D-d-d-d-d-darling-g-g— ” his voice, while still sonorous, is more mechanical and glitchy than a fax machine. “You’re gon-gon-gonna make me c-c-c-cum j-just from this… finish m-me off prop-properly, ple-e-e-ease—”

Indeed, you realize when you glance down, his cock has flushed a deep, sore-looking magenta color and is twitching from lack of stimulation. You toss the dildo aside and, climbing onto his lap, you kiss his neck the way he does yours; making each sound wet and lewd, leaving no inch of skin unattended. You reach around him and blindly feel for the handcuffs on his wrists, struggling with the clasping mechanism until, finally, they fall loose.

“I want you to cum inside me,” you hiss in his ear.

In a matter of seconds, he has you on your back and he’s kissing you madly, endlessly, folding his tongue over yours in your mouth as his newly-freed hands tug at your hair, caress your neck and shoulders, push your bra up over your breasts. Your mind reels from how rough he is, how quickly he moves from place to place on your body. Before you know it, your knees are at your chest and he’s clutching your leg, planting sloppy kisses on your ankle and wailing brazenly as his cock pistons in and out of you. You can barely hear yourself crying encouragement— you’re so delirious with lust, it sounds removed from yourself— but every exquisite noise Mettaton makes, every wet slap of his pelvis against you, every deep, unrelenting thrust of his hips as he fucks you is like experiencing each moment in high definition, your senses enhanced, your dirty pleasure boundless and never-ending…

You don’t even notice your second orgasm approaching until it’s already upon you. Your jaw locks, legs shaking in the air, voice catching in your throat as Mettaton’s cock fucks several long seconds of ecstasy out of you before you go limp, your muscles continuing to spasm from the intensity. Mettaton hunches over you, his movements erratic as he increases the pace, his own release clearly moments away. You hold him close, tugging his hair as you pull his face into the crook of your neck— his guttural voice leaps a few octaves, each heaving exhale tinny and sharp, and it only takes one more solid yank and twist of the damp locks in your fist before he’s juddering to an abrupt halt, groaning with relief and pressing his crotch hard against yours as he spills into you...

It’s now as though time has slowed, the seconds passing in rhythm with your exhausted out-breaths. After a long minute of absolute stillness, Mettaton shifts quietly until he’s at your side and you pull yourself against him, listening for his heartbeat. You find soft clicking and whirring sounds instead, and you smile weakly against his synthetic chest as the delicate noise soothes you in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me several weeks of combing through video tours of megamansions and asking the opinion of readers to find the perfect one to inspire Mettaton's (you'll be seeing more of it later on). I decided on [Chateau d'Or,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DsgqJ-qJB6A) incidentally also located in Bel Air, CA. 
> 
> The comments on the video said it's "like Liberace's sex dungeon gone wrong" and "a monument to bad taste"; as soon as I saw that, I knew it was going to be a perfect fit. XD


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And I'd be like... why are you so obsessed with me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and welcome to me being physically incapable of writing a porn without plot fic. XD  
> If porn with plot isn't so much your thing, never fear! Alternating chapters are going to remain strictly X-rated.  
> Also, it took me Terribly long to update this, and I'm so sorry! It took me 484499339 years to finish "Dramaturgy" and then I felt like writing "The Green Light", which was supposed to be short but turned into 6000 words XD Plus, I'm trying to get into med school so my workload has significantly increased...  
> I'm currently alternating between only two fics, this one and "Pursuit of Happiness", so from now on updates should come a little faster.  
> Hope you enjoy!! c:  
> Contains: (attempted) cunnilingus, a hint of exhibition.

You wake up feeling floaty, almost inconceivably comfortable, curled up in a nest of cotton sheets. Your body aches a little from last night, but it’s a pleasurable sort of soreness, the kind that makes you want to luxuriate in a stretch; and so you do, pointing your toes and arching your back with a strained exhale.

“Rise and shine, darling.”

You feel metal fingertips trail up the side of your naked body beneath the sheets, making you shiver and ruining your stretch halfway through. You giggle, breathless and drowsy as you relax back into the soft mattress.

“Morning...”

You turn your head to look up at Mettaton, blinking the sleep out of your eyes. For a split second, you don’t recognize him. You’ve never seen him without makeup softening his features, so everything from his strong jaw to his muscular chest to his crooked half-smile is more masculine than you’re accustomed to. Not that you’re complaining— he’s ineffably handsome and your heart skips like a stone across a pond as his fingers start to trace the curvature of your parted lips.

You catch his wrist in your hand, holding it still as you take his fingertips into your mouth and suck on them. His smile deepens and he waggles his brow suggestively, fingers venturing down along your tongue into the recess of your mouth.

“Ooh… somebody’s got their priorities in order,” he murmurs as you withdraw his fingers after a few moments to kiss his smooth palm. “You a morning person?”

“Not really,” you whisper. “You’re just hot.”

“ _Mmmm…_ ” Mettaton angles your head with the gentle prompting of his hand on your jaw and brings his mouth to yours. “You flatter me, darling.”

You kiss slowly, leisurely, Mettaton humming as your lips move against his. It isn’t long before his mouth drifts to your breasts, teasing first your left nipple and then your right, and you whimper softly with each flick of his tongue. Soft strands of his forelock tickle your chest as he moves his head, heightening your pleasure even further, and as his lips brush just below your sternum you can’t help but moan.

“Ahh, so eager…” Mettaton breathes, reaching behind and pulling the coverlet up and over him with a dramatic flourish. It settles after a few seconds, cloaking his head. His silver hands emerge from the depths, sliding up the length of your body to your chest as his lips continue their languid downhill journey.

“Spread your legs for me— _that’s_ it,” his voice urges, a little muffled by the bedspread. You can feel his breath, hot and humid between your legs as he rolls your nipples under cool metal fingertips. He gives your vagina a gentle kiss and you gasp needfully, tensing up to keep from bucking on his chin.

“ _God…_ Mettaton… _nnn..._ ” Not the most enlightening of statements, perhaps— you did say you’re not a morning person— but Mettaton doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

“I’m going to make you… _mngh_ —” You feel his smooth, wet tongue nudging inside you, distorting his words,  “...cum ih my mou’—”

A sudden loud pounding on the bedroom door startles you from sleepy bliss and you yelp, scrambling upright. Mettaton rips the blanket off of his head with a snarl of frustration, scowling as he leaps up and runs to the bathroom.

“ _Mettatooooon!”_ A woman’s voice can be heard over the incessant knocking. Mettaton reappears a few seconds later, hastily tying the waist-tie of his silk seashell robe, eyes blazing as he strides to the door and throws it open with irate gusto.

“What the _fuck_ do you want, Tiffany?” he barks, venom punctuating every sharp syllable.

“The car’s here. For _Hollywood 365_?" You can’t see the speaker around Mettaton, but you can tell by her voice that she’s young and, without a doubt, a California native; a valley girl.

“Wha— That’s not today.”

“Um, yeah it is. Friday?”

“ _Oh,_ you’re not serious. You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me— _fuck!_ ” Mettaton slams the door in her face before sprinting to his walk-in closet, punching in the passcode with frantic thumbs and throwing himself inside.

“Y/N—” His voice floats back to you from the closet, accompanied by the sound of clothes hanger hooks screeching on metal racks. “Raincheck on the cunnilingus, darling, I had no idea this interview was today, it won’t take very long, I promise—”

“It’s okay,” you assure him good-naturedly, humored by his choice of words.

A pair of Louboutins fly from the closet, clattering across the marble floor. Mettaton stumbles out soon after, a garment bag stuffed under one arm as he struggles to pull the heels on with his free hand.

“I’ll have my assistant take you— _Tiffany!_ Fuck, where’s my watch— _TIFFANY!”_

The bedroom door opens a crack; Mettaton’s there in a flash, pulling it open properly. “Get my guest breakfast and bring her to the studio with you, I don’t want her sitting around alone in the house.”

“Which car—”

“ _Rolls Royce!”_ Mettaton snatches yesterday’s handbag and sunglasses off of the nearby table before pushing past Tiffany into the hall and out of sight.

You finally get a look at Tiffany, and you can tell immediately that she’s a model. Tall and rail-thin, dressed in casual clothes with long blonde hair tied back in a messy bun; she’s beautiful in the way that models are, but she looks out of place in her regularity against the extravagant backdrop of Mettaton's interior decorating.

It takes a few seconds— you’re unused to seeing her so dressed down— but you realize suddenly that you know her from Instagram. Tiffany Germaine MUA, a moderately famous beauty influencer, model, and Mettaton’s makeup artist. You hadn’t realized until now that she’s also... his assistant? Whatever that means?

“Hi,” says Tiffany, giving you a close-lipped smile. You look down at yourself (naked, save for the sheet you’re clutching to your chest), at the pile of clothes on the floor, at the sex toys on the bed, and then back at Tiffany.

“Ah… hey.”

Tiffany blinks twice, smile unwavering, and points in the direction of Mettaton’s bathroom. “Shower is through there if you need it. Um. I’ll be downstairs. Take your time.”

“Cool… thanks.”

Once you’re alone, you flop backwards on the bed and squeeze your eyes shut, cringing hard from the incredible awkwardness of the interaction. It takes a good minute or so to get past that debilitating initial feeling. Still staving off the remaining prickles of embarrassment, you hop down from the bed and gather up Mettaton’s toys to wash in the bathroom sink.

When they’re clean, you take them to the wardrobe and start putting them away. Handcuffs on their hook, vibrator on its shelf, the remote for the plug—

_Wait… where’s the plug?_

Your phone buzzes on the side table, and upon checking it you discover a couple of messages from Mettaton:

_ >I left in the thingy from last night hahaha _

_ >whoopsie daisyyyyyyyyyyy_

You roll your eyes with a grin as you type out your response.

_ >Omg. Too bad the remote won’t work from here... _

You meander towards the bathroom to scope out the shower situation, but your phone buzzes again in your hand almost instantaneously so you pause to glance at it.

_ >internet controlled, darling. it’ll work ;) _

_ >low setting please, don’t wanna traumatize the chauffeur _

You make an abrupt U-turn and are back by the armoire in a flash. Remote in hand, you heed his request and turn the dial just one notch.

Within seconds, more texts:

_ >mmmmmmmmmmmmm _

_ >bet you wish you could see my face rn xoxo _

_ >xoxo _

_ >xoxoxo _

“Oh my fucking god,” you chuckle aloud to yourself as yet another “xoxo”-variant text arrives. You’re duly aware of the wasted time you’re supposed to be using to get ready, so you send him one last text before tossing your phone on the bed:

_ >You want me to bring the remote with me to the studio, don’t you. _

Skipping the shower, you go straight to getting dressed and making your hair look presentable. Once you’re ready, you return to your phone and find one unread message waiting for you:

_ >xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox _

~~

“Oh, this? Alexander McQueen. Gorgeous, isn't it? I thought the lace on the sleeves gave it a nice touch of individuality...”

You find yourself enraptured by Mettaton’s interview, playing live on a screen in the dressing room of the studio. He looks so elegant, dressed in a sleek white blazer with lace trim and matching trousers, and his demeanor is poised and graceful as he considers each question before answering in a voice that carries both the velvet register and musicality of bass guitar. He gesticulates every so often, and each time his hand moves upward the lacy cuff of his sleeve slips down his silvery forearm to reveal a diamond-encrusted Rolex with a ruby red dial, crowning his wrist as an unspoken symbol of wealth and success.

“No new music for the time being, unfortunately. I’ve been so preoccupied with other things that I haven’t had time to be in the studio— chiefly, opening a new hotel in London, which I couldn’t be more thrilled about…”

The studio audience applauds in a congratulatory manner and he grins, blowing them a kiss. He’s just like how he was at the bar, when you first met; dignified, well-spoken, charming and mature. He’d morphed so soon after your initial meeting into the goofy, headache-inducing yet strangely endearing egomaniac you know now, however, so seeing him revert back to such a wildly different persona is utterly fascinating to you.

Tiffany, on the other hand, couldn’t be less interested in the interview if she tried. Curled up on the opposite side of the couch from you, she momentarily tears her gaze away from her phone screen to push loose strands of flaxen blonde hair from her face before promptly returning to it. You watch her scroll for a moment, wondering idly about the full nature of her association with Mettaton, besides being his makeup artist and… “assistant”. What does that entail, exactly?

She’d talked incessantly in the car while driving you to the studio and you didn’t retain very much— you _do_ remember her mentioning a fiancé. Mettaton’s photographer, you recall, away currently for some work-related reason. You figure it’s safe to assume from this that Tiffany’s been “assisting” Mettaton in a more traditional fashion than you’ve been…

Deep in thought, you don’t realize Mettaton’s left the stage until the door to the dressing room swings open. He breezes inside, kicking the door closed, and does a somersault over the backrest of the couch, landing seated on the cushion between Tiffany and yourself.

“How are my two favorite ladieeeeees?”

“Is the interview over already?” you ask, in awe of his agility and, once again, bewildered by how differently he behaves on versus off camera.

“Not yet, sweetheart, we’re on a fifteen.” He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze before getting to his feet and crossing to the other side of the room, where a pile of beauty products await him on a table with a large mirror.

Tiffany looks up from her phone. “Kendra’s subtweeting about you again.”

“Of course she is,” Mettaton replies indifferently from his chair, turning his face this way and that in the mirror. “She’s so obsessed with me, it would be cute if it weren’t fucking annoying.”

“You want help with your makeup?” Tiffany starts to get up but Mettaton dismisses her with a wave of his hand. 

“Oh, no, sweetheart, I’ll be alright. I did it myself for twenty years, I can manage a little touch up on my own.” Mettaton separates a highlight palette from the pile before digging for a brush. “What did Kendra say about me this time?”

“It’s just a row of school bus emojis,” says Tiffany, “obviously—”

“A _Mean Girls_ reference, yes, typical Kendra. Y/N, come join me over here, would you? I want to chat with you about something.”

“Who’s Kendra?” you ask as you approach, leaning up on the table ledge and watching as he rubs a blinding amount of highlight into his cheekbones with a dainty white brush.

“Long story short, an assistant I fired last week for being a royal pain in my ass. She’s been exacting her pathetic revenge online ever since.” Mettaton drops the brush and palette unceremoniously on the tabletop and, swiveling around in his chair to face you, he pats his lap; an invitation you cordially accept.

“She’s a fucking psycho,” Tiffany adds as Mettaton wraps his arms around your middle. “The three of us dressed up as the Plastics from _Mean Girls_ last Halloween, and now she won’t stop vaguing that Mettaton is the real life Regina George, which is weird ‘cuz like, Regina’s the hottest one in the movie _and_ she’s the queen bee _and_ she’s a total savage so it’s kind of a compliment, and also if we’re going by costumes that would make Kendra Gretchen Wieners and Gretchen’s the least iconic out of the three of them… and besides, Mettaton is way more Regina’s mom, just without the whack boob job—”

“You see what I have to deal with, Y/N? Like, I’m really too old for this nonsense.” Mettaton puts his lips to your ear, sustaining eye contact with you in the reflection of the mirror. “Makes me all… _stressed..._ ”

“She just tweeted again,” Tiffany announces, “Um... ‘we should totally just stab Caesar’.”

“Tiff, I don’t need a play-by-play, darling. I really couldn’t give less of a fuck if I tried.” Mettaton reaches around you for a tube of black lipstick. “I have more pressing matters on my mind…”

He reapplies, mashes his lips together, and then puckers them in the mirror. His voice drops to a syrupy murmur. “Did you bring what we talked about earlier?” 

Your eyes slide to the left, checking to see if Tiffany is paying attention. She’s busy with her phone again, so you sneak your hand into your jacket pocket, feel for the remote, and wordlessly answer his question. The toy, being of presumably very high quality, operates in complete silence, but the expression on Mettaton’s face assures you that it is indeed working as it should.

“I’m back for the second half of my interview any minute now,” Mettaton breathes hotly in your ear. “You wanna have a little fun, babydoll? Raise the stakes?”

You switch off the remote and turn your head to look at him, a little astonished as the implications of what he’s asking you to do fully dawn on you. “Wait… you want me to—”

“Mmhmm… Wouldn’t it be a shame if I lost my composure, live, in front of thousands of viewers?” Mettaton giggles and stands up, dislodging you from your place in his lap.

Another quick glance confirms Tiffany isn’t listening— even still, you rise on your tiptoes, beckoning him to your mouth. He crouches down, allowing you to whisper in his ear.

“That would be very naughty of you.”

The dressing room door opens and a bird-monster wearing a headset pokes his head in. “You’re on, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who haven't seen "Mean Girls", don't worry, it isn't pivotal to the plot. If you Have seen it and love it as much as I do, however... well, expect some Easter eggs XD  
> References:  
> [Mettaton's Alexander McQueen pantsuit](https://www.alexandermcqueen.com/Item/index?cod10=41846448fs&siteCode=ALEXANDERMCQUEEN_US)
> 
> [Mettaton's watch](https://www.tradesy.com/i/rolex-steel-red-datejust-il-full-iced-out-41mm-116300-dial-diamond-215-ct-watch/22139436/?utm_source=bpl&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=Shopping%20-%20Accessories%20-%20Brands%20-%20FTB&utm_content=rolex&utm_term=nokw&cmpgnid=301065215&adgrpid=1294125235818623&msclkid=cb38af858a5f105245bef328ea9df2f1) (the retail price nearly gave me a heart attack lmao). I'm actually unable to confirm if this one is a genuine Rolex (I can't find another watch with a red face on the actual website) so... welp, MTT, hope you didn't get scammed! XD
> 
> Tiffany's appearance is inspired by [Alissa Violet.](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/81/99/ea/8199ea4aa397d9d7f39d4cbf9f5f89ed.jpg) 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You discover Mettaton has an ardent taste for exhibition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, readers! Welcome back, and thanks for sticking around!  
> A quick note: the Twitter I had linked is no longer active. I found it to be a big (and actually, rather stressful!) time waster, and I've been trying to cut back on distractions from an increased course load.  
> Anyway... I hope you enjoy!!  
> Contains: public exhibition, vibrators, heavy petting, dry humping.

“ _Forbes_ Magazine has placed Mettaton’s net worth at a whopping seven hundred and fifty million dollars as a luxury hotelier, real estate owner, investor, and… former? Actor and musician?”

You watch Mettaton’s interview with laser focus now, your hand shoved in your pocket and your thumb on the dial of the remote. You have yet to try it on him, partly out of anxiety, but mostly because you like having the element of surprise on your side. You’re waiting for a moment you know he won’t be expecting, feeling like a predator hunting prey. Mettaton, on the other hand, is charming and put-together, his sociable demeanor suggesting nothing out of the ordinary.

“Hopefully, not ‘former’ for too much longer… I have such wonderful fans, and I hate to think that I’ve disappointed them by taking such a long hiatus.” He turns in his chair to face the camera and, with adorably wide eyes and a crescent moon smile, he presses his palms together in a heartfelt prayer of forgiveness. “I promise you, my lovelies! I will return!”

Your heart thumps a little harder in your chest. He’s so mind-blowingly charismatic, you almost want to throw yourself in his arms and assure him over and over that he could never, ever be a disappointment. Logically, you know he needs no such affirmation— you’re well aware that he thinks himself the greatest thing since sliced bread.

“My god, how sweet,” the host remarks, clearly enchanted by Mettaton’s charm along with the rest of the world. “I’m sure your fans will understand how busy you are with your extremely successful hotel chain approaching its overseas expansion… in fact, _Forbes_ has also estimated that you’ll soon be ranked among their list of billionaires!”

The audience cheers and applauds, and Mettaton smiles appreciatively, looking humbled. You tighten your hold on the remote in your pocket, wondering how he’s going to react to the vibrator, if he reacts at all. Not too noticeably, you presume… conversely, however, you hope it’s noticeable enough for you to catch. 

“Now, shall we take a few questions from the audience?”

The crowd erupts, leaping to their feet and waving their hands in the air. As the host leaves the stage and proceeds down one of the aisles, the screen splits: on one side, a lucky person from the audience is selected by the host. Mettaton remains on the other side— to capture his reaction to questions, you figure, which just so happens to be a boon for your more salacious intentions.

“Who are you inspired by?”

“In performance?” Mettaton runs a casual hand over his slicked-back hair. “Prince, mostly. A little Bowie. In my daily life…” He sneers. “Regina George,so I’ve heard.”

The host gasps as the audience titters knowingly. “The _shade!"_

“Oh god, the next person is totally gonna ask him about Kendra now. I can feel it,” Tiffany remarks suddenly, giving you a bit of a scare. You’ve been so enraptured by the program, you’d forgotten that she is right there next to you. You note with a surge of adrenaline that she’s put her phone down and is now watching the interview along with you, making your voyeuristic mission even more dangerous than it was before.

You finger the hidden remote, rubbing your thumb across the smooth plastic, tracing the circumference of the dial. It’s in the pocket closest to Tiffany, and there’s no way you can feasibly transfer it to the other side without her noticing. You doubt she will realize anything amiss unless either you or Mettaton are imprudent, but even still, the stakes feel drastically elevated. She’s in such close proximity to the remote and is watching the show undistracted— a development that is equal parts scary and exhilarating.

“Hi, Mettaton…” The next inquisitor is a shy-looking rabbit monster wearing one of Mettaton’s old concert t-shirts. “I’m a big fan… a-anyway, uh, my q-question is... about the drama on Twitter...”

“Ha! Called it!” Tiffany declares beside you, but you hardly take notice. Your anticipation has reached its boiling point— it’s time to try this. You rest your thumb on the dial of the remote, poised to spring.

Mettaton rolls his eyes with a good-humored chuckle. “Oh, I think I know what’s coming.”

 _It better not be you,_ you think to yourself, and you turn the dial a single notch.

His face betrays nothing, his pretty smile not wavering in the slightest… but you burn with wicked satisfaction as you watch him casually adjust his position in his armchair, folding one leg over the other.

“Why did you fire Kendra Vasquez? If you don’t mind talking about it, ah—”

“I don’t mind at all, darling, don’t worry. Unprofessionalism and misconduct issues. Forgive me for not going into greater detail, I want to be respectful of Kendra’s privacy.”

“How do I apply to be your new assistant?” the rabbit-woman asks, joking but also clearly half-hopeful. Mettaton laughs along with the audience for a few moments before answering her question.

“Well, my assistants are more protégés than anything else. I offer the position to young creatives in Hollywood who I feel have potential, so it’s a little different than most assistant jobs. I expect a lot of hard work from them.” Mettaton smiles, mischief alight in his eye. “You’d have to move in with me, too… think you’re up to the task, angel?”

He winks and the poor woman looks like she’s about to faint. As the audience predictably goes wild, you get the overwhelming urge to try and fluster him, give him a taste of his own medicine— so you turn the dial a dangerous two notches, keep it there for just a few seconds, and then take it back down to the lowest level.

As the host swims through the crowd to choose another audience member, Mettaton angles his head and looks directly into the camera, eyes lidded, mouth twisted into a smirk. To the average viewer, it would just appear that he has the sexiest resting face known to man... but you know better. His expression gives you a delicious chill, like ice water trickling down the back of your neck.

You turn the dial again, allowing the higher speed to linger this time, and watch his face change. His smile melts away as his lips part, his dark eyes soft and erotic under thick lashes. God, how disgustingly bold.

“Christ, M,” Tiffany laughs. “Just eyefuck the camera, why don’t you?”

“Isn’t he always like this?” you ask as casually as you can manage, your voice sounding a bit distant.

“This is, like… more than usual, and that’s saying something. Dunno what’s gotten into him today.” She looks over at you, lips pursed in a cheeky smile. “I bet he’s showing off for you.”

“Hah, yeah…” Your heart pounds as molten desire bubbles up like ruby red magma and pools in your abdomen, thick and sweet and wanting. “Maybe…”

~~

By the time the Q&A is over, you’ve pushed the vibrator all the way to medium speed. You’re apprehensive about going any further with it than that— top speed reduced Mettaton to a sniveling mess, you recall from the night before, and you don’t _actually_ want him to fall apart on live television.

You anxiously will the interview to end, your leg bouncing with impatience. Your lust teases you in earnest now, tickling your insides, saturating your mind with naughty daydreams. You picture him down on his knees, finishing what he was so rudely called away from this morning; groaning, sucking, wriggling his tongue, exhaling in hot, heaving breaths. His comically vehement fondness for shoving his face between your legs is an endearing quality of his, to say the very least— your cheeks flush and you smile, craving his touch, unable to stop yourself from chewing a little on your lip.

You look back up at the television and find with a terrific thrill that the stage is empty and the members of the audience are all stood, filing from the studio. _It’s over!_

Before you can even begin to wonder where Mettaton is, he answers that question for you by throwing open the dressing room door with excessive force, smashing the door handle into the back wall with a loud bang. Both you and Tiffany are profoundly startled, leaping up from the couch with individual shrieks of fright.

“Tiffany, sweetheart,” Mettaton coos, his voice sounding rather stilted, “Why don’t you go get the car from the garage and bring it around to the back entrance, hmm?”

“I mean... aren’t we all just going togeth—”

“ _Go get the car, Tiffany!”_ Mettaton snaps, suddenly ferocious. Tiffany squeaks and scurries from the room, barely avoiding getting hit in the back by Mettaton kicking the door shut behind her.

He crosses the room in three long strides and crushes his lips on yours with ravenous tenacity, the force of his body knocking you back against the closest wall. You find yourself barely able to keep up with him— his mouth feels like it’s everywhere, hands groping, legs tangling, pelvis grinding on you. You moan as you rock against him in accordance with his movements, volcanic pleasure erupting inside you, lustful urgency devouring any and all fear of being caught like this in this very much public studio.

“ _Fuck_ , baby, that was so hot, that was so fucking hot,” he gasps between greedy kisses, “they were all watching me, _mmm, god,_ they had no idea—”

You separate from him only to turn in his arms and, pressing your chest to the wall, you invite him in for more with a wiggle of your hips. He shoves his whole body forward, huffing in your ear as he grinds his cock, hard and bulging through his slacks, on the swell of your behind.   

Your desire matches his, no doubt, and you wouldn’t necessarily object to being stripped and bent over right here in the dressing room— but his desperation amuses you, so you decide to toy with him some more. You sneak your hand into your pocket and crank the dial on the remote to a higher speed, giggling as his body jolts and spasms against yours before taking it down to low.

“You are… so much fun… to control,” you manage between heavy breaths. Mettaton is making it hard to speak, sandwiching you snugly between himself and the wall and humping you like a savage animal in heat.

 _"Ohh—_ You own my ass, Mistress, you know you do,” Mettaton groans, his tone hot and filthy, “I’m a dirty boy, I’m such a dirty boy, oh… oh, _g-g-g-god_ —"

His words start catching in his throat, coming in mechanical hiccups, and you realize he’s much closer to climax than you thought— simply from rutting on you. Your head spins; you're overwhelmed by your pleasure, the power you have over him, how quickly you’ve converted him from a revered celebrity to a needy, shameless slut. However, as much as you'd love to feel him shudder, hear him sigh with relief as he cums on himself... he’s still that same celebrity for as long as you're in public and his judgement is clearly compromised, so it's essentially up to you to maintain his reputation.

Besides, you don't want to give in to such a spoiled brat  _that_  easily. He still has that raincheck to follow through on, after all... 

“Oh, honey,” he croons, his wet lips dragging across the helix of your ear, each exhale carrying a harsh whine that threatens to deafen you, “I’m… I’m really about to ruin this suit, darling, just—”

“You think I’m gonna let you do that?” You wriggle until he loosens his grip, and then duck out from under his arm, leaving him unsatisfied. Mettaton cries like an injured pet, trotting after you as you try to escape his desperate clutches; tugging on your clothes, pawing at your waist.

“No! You’re being bad— _stop,"_ you laugh, stumbling as you swat his hands away, “Get— _no…_ get down. Down, on the floor, if you can’t behave.”

He collapses to his knees with a sharp, protesting whine. "I was so _close,"_ he moans, drawing out the last syllable with an ‘ _uhh’_ sound like a distraught adolescent.

“You’re wearing white,” you remind him sternly, “your assistant is waiting, and we’re still in public. More importantly…”

You crouch down and lift his chin, attempting to wipe away his lipstick with your thumb; it’s stubborn, like black ink smeared across his face. You can see in the reflection of his glassy eyes that you’re in serious need of cleaning up around the mouth as well and you grin, impishly pleased by your disheveled appearance.

“...you don’t _ever_ get to cum first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be the pure, unfettered nasty stuff. Strap in (pun absolutely intended)!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part one of two in the pegging adventures...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello MTV Cribs, welcome to my den of iniquity. We have wine and Mettaton figurines. ᵉⁿʲᵒʸ ʸᵒᵘʳ ˢᵗᵃʸ  
> Contains: a little more exhibition, anal vibrators, verbal humiliation, pegging, a cheeky smack on the face

Your hands stay hidden in your pockets as you follow Mettaton out the back door of the studio, across the sunny parking lot, and into the backseat of his white and gold Rolls Royce. Tiffany doesn't question what took the two of you so long— you suspect she already knows.

As she pulls Mettaton’s elegant car past the security booth and onto the street, she launches into a spirited tirade about the rudeness of the parking lot attendant not understanding exactly who this car belongs to, “irregardless” of whether it was parked in a loading zone; and no, she’s not just Mettaton’s chauffeur, she’s his _whole_ makeup artist and like, assistant and everything? And that clearly this guy doesn't have Instagram or else he’d know this by now.

Mettaton extends apathetic condolences from the middle seat as he snakes an arm around your waist, drumming his fingers on your hip. You stare out of the tinted window at the row of palm trees lining the clean city street, idly noting how lovely the fan-like fronds look swaying in the summer breeze; but your hands are in your pockets for a reason and, nestled up beside Mettaton, you decide to take advantage of Tiffany’s distraction. You turn up the remote and filthy pleasure twists your stomach as you feel his arm stiffen against you.

Tiffany’s voice becomes ambient noise, blending with the sound of the purring engine as you focus on steadily torturing Mettaton with his vibrator, up a notch, ease off, up a notch, ease off. With every change in speed you feel him react— shifting in his seat beside you, giving your hip a squeeze, dragging his fingertips in little circles on your leg— but he manages to stay completely collected and poker-faced until the car reaches the freeway. Traffic is congested, bumper to bumper, which is to be expected at midday; but Mettaton is noticeably annoyed.

“Tiff, darling? How much _fuck_ —ing longer?” he asks, his voice starting out sweet and abruptly becoming strained as you take the vibrator up two more notches midway through his sentence and keep it there.

“Do I look like Google Maps?” Tiffany snarks. “It’s three o’clock on a Friday, we’re gonna get home, like... tomorrow.”

Mettaton huffs, his impatience apparent as he folds his arms and slouches down in his seat. When you reach over to give him a consolation pat on the knee, he grabs your hand and keeps it there, pinning it against his leg for a moment before dragging it up his inner thigh by your wrist. You let him do it, feeling very self-satisfied as he pulls it shamelessly onto his crotch and you feel the outline of his hardened cock protruding through the smooth fabric of his trousers.

“Why are you in such a rush, anyway?” Tiffany asks Mettaton as you press your hand against his erection, palming it roughly.

“Mind your business, honey bunches,” Mettaton retorts as he guides your hand under the waistband of his pants. “Put some music on, would you?”

Tiffany, still completely unaware of the goings-on in the backseat, does as Mettaton demands and replaces her own voice with that of Ariana Grande for the remainder of the drive.

~~

An hour later, after threatening Tiffany with termination of her employment should she decide to disturb him in his bedroom again, he’s calmly escorting you into his house from the seven-car garage, up the grand marble staircase and down the hall towards the master suite. The moment you’re back in the privacy of his room, he transforms, leaving all professionalism and poise at the door.

_“Fuck me!”_

He collapses onto a large furry throw rug in the center of the marble floor with a wet gasp, the melodrama of it all rivaling that of an enraged child at a supermarket, and writhes on his back with his hands firmly shoved between his thighs.

“You know, it’s funny—" You stand over him with your arms folded, remote in hand, regarding him like Marie Antoinette might a groveling subject. “Going off of your interview, I would have thought you were a celebrity..."

You smile and crank the dial of the remote to its highest level, your tone honey-sweet and dripping with wickedness. “But you’re really just a slut, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress!” Mettaton groans, practically seizing from the brutal stimulation, his body stiffening and contorting on the rug like balsa wood, “Make me your bitch, Mistress, _oh, please,_ fuck me, I need to fucking cum _—”_  

You ease the vibrator back down to a more comfortable speed, ignoring Mettaton’s incoherent babbling of thanks. No longer are you nervous about tormenting him or calling him vulgar names. In fact, you’re rather proud that you’ve started to fine-tune what sorts of things Mettaton loves. Watching him like this— reducing him to this—  is a hell of an addictive high and you’re overcome by your need to dominate him and enslave him to your pleasure.

“Why don’t you show me how slutty you really are?” you suggest coyly, your voice wavering a bit from your almost oppressive desire, “Make your Mistress happy?”

You’re expecting him to leap to his feet and throw you on his bed— or maybe even just pull you down onto the rug with him, who knows, who really cares, because all you can think about is the notion of his tongue finally inside you again— but he seems to slightly misinterpret your request. With a muttered _‘yes, Mistress’,_ he rolls over and gets up on all fours, pushing his hips toward you, and wiggles his ass in the air. You breathe in sharply at the sight and he responds by slowly bouncing up and down, arching his back and rhythmically humming his pleasure, making it easy for you to imagine how he'd look with a dick in him.

“Oh, so that’s what you want, is it?” you murmur, your free hand creeping beneath the elastic of your underwear as you watch him. You realize the fact that he’s still in his gorgeous Alexander McQueen pantsuit is what really turns you on. The image of him during his interview flashes through your mind, him with his crisp suit and slicked-back hair and charming, untouchable personality; his glittering Rolex, his tacit exudation of money and power and elegance commanding the devotion of everyone who sees him with a mere smile and wink.

Here he is before you, with the suit and the hair and even the diamond watch— but now, he’s your whore, and that knowledge promptly sails you off on an incredible and erotic power trip like the champagne bottle broken on the bow of a departing ocean liner.

You watch eagerly as he shimmies his trousers down to his knees and draws the string of his panties aside, massaging alongside the ring of his plug for a few seconds before slowly extracting the still-vibrating toy and filling his gaping hole with three fingers. Your dire need for his tongue in your pussy is dissipating, replaced by an even more enticing idea. _Perhaps that raincheck can wait a little longer still…_

“You have a strap-on, don’t you?” you query as you turn off the vibrator and toss the remote onto the rug beside him. “Your Mistress wants to fuck you.”

Mettaton blithers and keens, his excitement obvious but unintelligible. You roll your eyes, march around to his head and, crouching down in front of him, you fist his hair and pull him upright.

“Get your hand out of your ass—” You swallow a laugh with some difficulty, clear your throat, and start again with a rough shake of Mettaton’s head for good measure. “Get your hand out of your ass and tell me where your strap is, you little bitch.”

“In the wardrobe,” he gasps, bringing his hand around and licking his fingers, “Bottom left drawer… _oh, god,_ get the biggest dick you can find, Mistress, please…”

You drop Mettaton’s head with a theatrical noise of disgust and leave him on the carpet, moving to the armoire and pulling open the drawer he’d indicated. You find the harness you’re looking for— one among many, and also alongside an impressive myriad of dildos to choose from— and pull it on one leg at a time, tightening the straps snugly about your hips and groin before returning to the drawer.

It only takes a few seconds of digging to find what is unmistakably the biggest cock of them all. You draw out the mammoth creature, brow raised in surprise, wondering if this really could be the one Mettaton means. Translucent and ruby red in color, the silicone monstrosity is easily a foot long and as wide around as a soup can, looking more novelty than it does utilitarian— like a gag gift for a bride at her bachelorette party instead of something actually designed for one’s orifices.

“Is…” You turn back towards Mettaton, holding the dildo across the palms of both hands with an air of fear and respect worthy of presenting a sacrificial dagger, “Is this going to fit?”

Mettaton, in the midst of tugging off his trousers over his high-heeled feet, doesn’t even look up. “You could drive a G-Wagon up my ass, darling, don’t worry about it.”

You can’t stop yourself from snickering, and even Mettaton struggles to stay serious, his mouth twisting as he attempts to force back a grin. After a bit of out-of-character amusement, you redirect your attention back to the situation at hand and affix the dildo onto the harness without another word.

Mettaton leans back on his elbows and spreads his legs, smirking as he holds his erection out of the way with one hand to bare the slick slit of his pussy to you, pressing the fingers of his other hand between his cheeks directly below. You get on your knees between his beautiful thighs, lean down over him and press your mouth to his, humming into the kiss as you feel his gentle hands alight on your waist; caressing your skin, leaving a trail of tingles behind in their wake. It’s adorable and passionate… for a split second, anyway.

“Get on the bed, cocksucker,” you mutter against his lips, “I’m gonna fuck you senseless.”

~~

Mettaton settles back into a pile of pillows and lifts his legs obediently for you, chewing on his bottom lip, his heavy eyes wide and wanting. You hold his gaze, watching his eyes grow even wider as you push the tip of the dildo into him.

“How’s that?” you tease as Mettaton relaxes fully under you and you slide in to the hilt all at once. “You like feeling full of my cock?”

Mettaton takes a deep, shuddering breath, his fingers gripping the sheets below. “Y-y-yes, Mistress,” he stammers as thick white steam lazily waterfalls from the vents on his face, “ _God_ , fuck, you’re so deep in my ass, Mistress—”  

You rock your hips into him and he hisses sharply, squeezing his eyes shut. The sound dissolves momentarily into a long, low groan of bliss as you do it again, and again, and again, falling into a rhythm, making the mattress bounce a little beneath you.

“Look at you,” you sneer, steadying yourself by grasping the lapel of his white jacket as you draw your hips back with more verve. You thrust into him and a cute little cry leaps from his lips, forced out like you’re giving him the Heimlich. “What a naughty boy, taking dick in a designer jacket. I don’t think McQueen intended for this to be worn by—” you thrust again, much harder this time, and his back arches like a bridge, “—by dirty whores like you.”

“Oh, no, Mistress, not at all... I don’t deserve to wear it, Mistress, _oh god,_ fuck me... fuck me hard...”

You lean forward, grit your teeth and plow him with all of your strength. Mettaton’s head tips back and strangled sounds of intense pleasure escape his throat, his voice an octave or two higher than normal; your cock is fucking him from a baritone right up to an alto. You keep this up for a minute, pounding his ass as hard as you can manage, until the beads of sweat on your forehead start trickling down your face and your breathing grows ragged and weary.

“You like that?” you murmur playfully as you lower your head and brush your mouth against his parted lips. You continue fucking him by rolling your hips against his plump ass and he moans gratefully, holding his quivering legs up in the air by the backs of his thighs.

“Oh, yes, Mistress, I love it… I love feeling you inside me, Mistress."

His words evoke a feral sort of excitement in you and you kiss him hard, forcing your eager tongue into his mouth.

“You’re taking my dick so well,” you praise him in a whisper when your mouths finally part. “Taking it all like the little cockslut you are.”

“ _God, y-y-yeah…_ oh, I’m such a slut, Mistress, you don’t— _oh, god,_ you don’t even know… I’m so bad, Mistress, I’m so—"

“Are you a pervert, Mettaton?” you encourage as you ever-so-slightly increase the pace of your thrusts. “Is that what you are? Tell me you’re a dirty pervert—"

The air is sticky and humid from Mettaton's hissing vents emitting relentless bursts of water vapor— you can feel your degradation winding him up to an overwhelming degree. His black eye makeup streaks down his face like oily tears; his once-impeccably gelled hair is falling apart, thick strands of his forelock flopping back to their natural position in clumps. His rapid breaths start to carry a certain whine, a whine you know well, and you narrow your eyes at him in disapproval. 

He knows better than to try and cum before you.

“Get a fucking grip,” you growl, glaring down at him. “You’re going to hold in your cum until I say.”

“Y-y-yes, Mis-Mistress. Of c-course, Mistress.” Mettaton squeezes his eyes shut and you can feel his whole body tensing beneath you as he struggles to keep his orgasm at bay. “ _F-f-fuck,_ I’m— Mistress, please, I can’t help it, oh god, slap me, slap me out of it—"

You pull your dick out of him at once and deliver him a firm smack to the face, not quite hard enough to qualify as a slap— you’re loath to the idea of his metal cheek vents slicing up your palm— but it’s more than enough for him and he moans happily, eyelashes beating hard against his puffy, doctored cheekbones as his lids flutter. 

“Switch places with me,” you order, your voice stern and authoritative. “If you can’t follow the rules, then we’ll just have to change position.”

Mettaton starts to sit up, enthusiastically obeying your command, and you thank your lucky stars that he's keen on that idea— your shoulders and back ache terribly. Still, despite your exhaustion, you burn and tingle at the thought of Mettaton riding you, fucking himself on your cock, moaning and crying and unraveling while you relax and enjoy the show... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see if I can get the next chapter out within the month! No promises. XD  
> Also, in case you were wondering, Mettaton's Rolls Royce is a [Fenice Milano Ghost Diva](http://www.extravaganzi.com/rolls-royce-ghost-diva-by-fenice-milano-more-powerful-rolls-ever-built/) in the white and gold color scheme. Except, like, ugh. Pretend it's a custom that has a middle seat instead of an armrest, lmao.


End file.
